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TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 










TRIBUTES 
TO A VANISHING 

RACE 


Compiled by 



MRS. IRENE C /BEAULIEU 

and 


MRS. KATHLEEN WOODWARD 



) > 
) > 

) •> > 


> 


CHICAGO 

PRIVATELY PRINTED 
1916 






\ \ S \ V, | 

#4 ^ 


All Rights Reserved 



To our co-workers in the Heeko Club , Pawhuska , 
Oklahoma, this book is hereby dedicated 


































ACKNOWLED GMENT 


We wish to acknowledge our appreciation to publishers and friends 
who by their contributions and co-operation have made this little book 
a possibility. 

The publishers who consented to the use of photogravure reproductions 
for illustrative purposes enhanced the value of the work. 

Others contributed because of a purely friendly feeling for the Red Man, 
and that thousands of readers might obtain in one volume the sincerest of 
“Tributes to a Vanishing Race.” 


The Compilers. 
























PREFACE 


This volume is a correction, as far as lies in our power, of erroneous 
statements that have been accepted as authority, copied, quoted and 
believed, forming an unfair basis for adverse opinion against the Real 
Americans. 

Justice is the fundamental pedestal on which we wish to be placed in 
this “Circle of Eternal Change.” 


— The Compilers. 


v\ 











CONTENTS 


Page 

Dedication. 7 

Acknowledgment.9 

Preface. . 

List of Illustrations. 

Prelude — A Paleface . I7 

Before the White Man Came — R . H . Adams .18 

A Vanishing Race ?—Joseph B . Thoburn .19 

Origin of Birds (Legend )—Selected .20 

Indian Names — Mrs . Sigourney .21 

To the North American Indian — Arthur P . Wedge .22 

Extracts from “The Indian To-Day” — Charles A . Eastman .24 

Sa-ca’-ga-we-a — Edna Dean Proctor .25 

Prayer of a Sioux Indian — Permission Carlisle Red Man .26 

Story of Logan — A Mingo Chief.27 

American Indian’s Contribution to Music — Charles W . Cadman .... 28 

Tribute to the Red Man — Francis E . Luepp .28 

Arrow-Heads — Hento , a Wyandot .29 

The Daughter — John Greenleaf Whittier .30 

Epigram of an Indian.33 

An Indian at the Burial Place of His Fathers — W . C . Bryant .... 34 

A Welcome — Mrs . Cato Sells .36 

Our Wild Indians — Col . Richard I . Dodge (1882).37 

The Navajo Blanket — Edwin L . Sabin .38 

The American Indian — Selected .39 

The Indian as the Social Equal of the W t hite Man — Gabe E . Parker . . 40 

Comments — 0 . H . L .42 

Wampum.43 

Wherefore, White Man ? — Medicine Arrow .44 

To an Indian Girl — Joseph Roy Ellis .45 

A Wyandot Lullaby — Hento .45 

The Red Man’s Phantom — Edna Hamilton .46 

Origin of the Buffalo — Wenonah .48 

Man to Man — Walter S . Campbell .50 

Origin of Scalping.51 

Nature’s Orator.51 

Pocahontas — William M . Thackeray .52 

Treat the Indian Right.53 

Our Indian Problem — Gen . R . II . Pratt .54 

Poor Lo — Wenonah .55 

Migration of the Choctaws.56 

Why the Swallow’s Back is Black.57 

[ 13 ] 







































CONTENTS 


The Native Inhabitant of North America — John F . Palmer .58 

Indian Friends — General Hugh L . Scott .60 

Indian Death Song — Philip Freneau .61 

The Osage — Harry Walker .62 

The Red Man Liveth Still — WaubanA . Sharp .64 

Impressions — Helen W . Ball .65 

To an Indian Babe Asleep — Mrs . J . P . White .66 

The Indian’s Soliloquy — O . H.Lipps .67 

The War Bonnet — To - wam-pah .68 

Extract from “Captain of the Grey Horse Troop” — Hamlin Garland . . 69 

The Indian Girl’s Lament — William Cullen Bryant .70 

Chief Josh — R . H . Adams .72 

To the Driving Cloud — Longfellow ... ..73 

A Cheyenne’s Tribute — J . B . Thoburn .74 

Sunlight Legend of the Warmsprings Indians — Lucien M . Lewis .... 76 

Nature’s Children — To - wam-pah .79 

A Cheyenne Chief — R . H . Adams ...80 

A Memorial to a Great Race.81 

On the Making and Breaking of Treaties — James McLaughlin .... 82 

The Disinterred Warrior — William Cullen Bryant .84 

Lover’s Leap — RiehVs Poems of the Piasa ..85 

My Country — Chief Joseph .86 

Burial of the Minnisink — Longfellow .87 

Song of the Carlisle Indians — Elaine Goodale Eastman .89 

Treaties — Des Moines { Iowa ) Register and Leader .90 

Citizenship for the Red Man — Edna Dean Proctor .91 

An Interview with Cyrus Dallin, Sculptor.92 

Chief Strong Arm’s Change of Heart — Frances C . Wenrich .93 

Welcome to the Red Man — Edna Dean Proctor .96 

Pelathe’s Ride —Wauban A . Sharp .97 

I Wish to Die Free —An Osage Chief .98 

Days that are Gone Forever — Judge George W . Atkinson , M . A ., Ph . D . . . 99 
Perpetuating a Dying Race — Selected .. . 101 


[ Hi 






























LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing Page 


Photo of Compilers.17 

Appeal to the Great Spirit.26 

Indian Women Weaving.38 

Pocahontas Saves John Smith.52 

Princess Dawn Mist ( Piegan Indian ) .66 

William Penn Making Treaty.82 


t 








1 






W10 NON AH 


The Compilers 


To-wam-pah 
























Tributes to a Vanishing Race 


PRELUDE 

By “A Paleface” 

“ Should you ask me whence these stories, 
Whence these legends and traditions? 

I should answer, I should tell you”: 

In the village of Pawhuska 
Lived two women learned and cultured 
On the red craig in the town dwelled they, 

And they are from different tribes of Red Men, 
But they loved each other dearly 
And became friends one to the other. 

One a musician Pa-Ketsa-kah-hah, 

The other a great student, a Wah-he-grah; 

So they put their thoughts together 
And a book did they make straightway, 

A book which told in song and stories 
Of their brothers in the Northland, 

Of their sisters on the prairies. 

So this book is a production 
Of two gifted Indian women — 

Women whose great “forefathers” 

Shot the deer and killed the bison, 

Swam the mighty forest rivers, 

Smoked the peace pipe there in silence, 

So silently they smoked and hunted. 

You who read these pages may ponder 
O’er the vanishing race of Red Men 
But be glad these tales are written 
And that the race, tho’ dying, has given 
Us such sturdy men and women, 

And such brilliant minds in them. 

Glad we are that they are numbered 
Among our friends and loved ones. 

True and tried and loyal are they 
As the braves of any nation! 

So pause and listen to these legends 
Told around the fading camp fires, 

To these songs of the noble Red Men 
To the tall “chiefs of the forests.” 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


BEFORE THE WHITE MAN CAME 

By R. H. Adams 

Many suns have kissed the morning, many moons adorned the night, 

Come and gone full many winters, and as many summers bright. 

The while across the broad prairies, through the forests deep and still, 

O’er the plains and up the mountains roamed the Red Man at his will,—■ 
Warriors, chieftains, men of fame, 

Long before the White Man came. 

’Neath the pine tree’s friendly shadows, on the shore of lake or stream, 
Here he pitched his humble wigwam, near the water’s crystal gleam; 
Thence he’d hunt the deer and bison, elk and bear or caribou, 

And swan-like glide across the water, in his light birchbark canoe,— 
Catching fish and trapping game, 

Long before the White Man came. 

Reared he here his sons and daughters, nature’s children plain and free, 
Temperate, moral, true and honest; he knew no law but liberty. 

Bound by no confederation, scarcely knowing of its worth, 

Yet the Indian was the sovereign of the greatest land on earth,— 
Possession being his sovereign claim, 

Long before the White Man came. 

He heard the voice of the “Great Spirit” in the thunder’s rumbling sound, 
While whispering winds brought him a message from the “Happy Hunting 
Ground.” 

By suns, and moons, and winters counted he the days, and months, and 
years, 

And in the spirit of the water read he all his hopes and fears,— 

Read destiny in drops of rain, 

Long before the White Man came. 

Thus he dwelt for generations in his own dear native land, 

From sea to sea an earthly Eden, with fish and game at every hand; 
Countless birds sang in the forest, anthems rang from all the trees 
And the wild flowers in profusion scented every wind and breeze,—■ 
Paradise, or much the same, 

Long before the White Man came. 


[18] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


A VANISHING RACE? 

By Joseph B. Thoburn 

“A vanishing race! Metaphorically, one whose people are marching 
toward the setting sun.” Thus they speak of the American Indian. And 
yet, strictly speaking, is it true? With an Indian population in the United 
States, at the time of the first white settlements on the Atlantic coast, 
which has been variously estimated at from 500,000 to 800,000, only 300,000 
people are now officially listed as Indians. True, if this 300,000 included 
all of the living descendants of the original inhabitants of this country, it 
would indicate a decided decrease. However, the actual fact is that there 
are several million Americans who, though ordinarily regarded as being of 
pure Caucasian stock, are, indeed, the descendants of the aboriginal Ameri¬ 
can race. Men of Indian blood are found in every walk and station in the 
life of America. Words of Indian origin are not uncommon in the Anglo- 
American language. Half of the states of the Union bear Indian names, 
while counties, cities, towns, lakes, rivers and lesser streams, and moun¬ 
tains in almost endless numbers, have their beautiful and significant names 
from the same appropriate source. We acknowledge the material worth of 
the Indian when we stamp the likeness of his face upon our most common 
coins. And who shall say that the literature, art, music and the philo¬ 
sophic ideals of America, in so far as these are truly national, are not pro¬ 
foundly influenced by the Indian element in the life of the nation? “A 
vanishing race!” Aye, vanishing, even as does the limpid current which 
the brook pours forth into the channel of a great river, thus adding to its 
might and majesty as its floods sweep on toward the sea of destiny. 


[ 19] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE ORIGIN OF BIRDS 

(An Indian Legend) 

Among the many strange stories which the Indians relate to their 
children is one which tells how the birds came on earth. 

They say that long, long ago, when the world was new, the Great Spirit 
walked about making it beautiful. Wherever his feet touched the ground, 
beautiful trees and flowers sprang into being. 

All through the first summer the trees bore leaves of many different 
shades of green. When autumn came and the winds grew colder, and the 
frosts came, the green in the leaves changed to bright red, and yellow, and 
soft brown, just as it does to this day. 

When the breezes played among them, they sang soft little songs to 
each other, and they fluttered down to the ground. 

The Great Spirit did not wish them to lie there and die; He wished them 
to live and be beautiful always, so He changed each one into a bird, and 
breathed into it the breath of life. 

The red-brown leaves of the oak were changed into Robins, the yellow 
leaves of the willow into Goldfinches and yellow birds, and the bright red 
leaves of the maple into Cardinals and Tanagers. All the dull brown leaves 
were changed into Sparrows, and Wrens and other dull brown birds. 

For this reason the birds have always loved to make their homes among 
the protecting branches of the mother trees, which furnish them both food 
and shelter. 


[20] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


INDIAN NAMES 

By Mrs. Sigourney 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave; 

That their light canoes have vanished 
From off the crested wave; 

That, ’mid the forests where they roamed, 
There rings no hunter’s shout; 

But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

’Tis where Ontario’s billow 
Like ocean’s surge is curled, 

Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake 
The echo of the world, 

Where red Missouri bringeth 
Rich tribute from the West, 

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
On green Virginia’s breast. 

Ye say their conelike cabins, 

That clustered o’er the vale, 

Have disappeared, as withered leaves 
Before the autumn’s gale; 

But their memory liveth on your hills, 
Their baptism on your shore, 

Your everlasting rivers speak 
Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 
Within her lordly crown, 

And broad Ohio bears it 
Amid his young renown. 

Connecticut hath wreathed it 
Where her quiet foliage waves, 

And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 
Within its rocky heart, 

And Alleghany graves its tone 
Throughout his lofty chart. 

Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 

Doth seal the sacred trust 
Your mountains build their monument, 
Though ye destroy their dust. 

[ 21 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


TO THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN 

By Arthur P. Wedge 

Whence art thou, thou we call Indian? What land gave thee birth? 

From the womb of what race didst thou spring? Where thy cradle? 

Art thou of the Orient? Did thy forbears cross the Strait long aeons 
ago? 

Across the ice came they, or in rude water craft; or found they land from 
continent to continent? 

What drove them forth from native soil; wanderlust, call of wild, famine, 
or fiercer, more warlike peoples? 

Why did they swarm, seeking new hives and fields from which to make 
the honey of a new life? 

What turned their steps toward the North and East, and was the 
journey slow or fast? Passed there years, or generations between that day 
they left the land of birth, and that day, feet pressing western soil, they 
turned their footsteps South and East? 

Whence art thou, O, Red Man, and yet not red; Indian, and yet it may 
be not of India? What land gave thee birth? Whence comest thou? 

It matters not. Thou art here, and for generations upon generations 
thou hast wandered North and East, and West and South over this great 
land. 

Alike thy tribes, yet so unlike. In speech so different, in skill so varied, 
in habits so diverse. Thou art here, proud, dignified, patient, mystic man. 

What have we done with thee? With outstretched hand, and word of 
welcome thou didst greet us. How have we returned it? Thy hospitality 
so lavish, how have we repaid it? Thy trust and confidence so childlike, 
how have we requited thee? 

What have we done to thee? Taken thy land from thee? Yea, and in 
this did we well. Well for thee and for other hives of men waiting to swarm. 
Well in the march of civilization, in the conquest of the world. Took from 
thee this continent, and great and rich. In this did we well. But in the 
taking, did we well? 

By force, by fraud, by murder foul and awful, by prostitution and 
debauchery, by mile posts of whisky bottles marking the way from ocean 
to ocean, by broken pledges. Call we this well? 

Long, long thy patience; slow, slow thy trust to doubt changing. Thy 
wrath at length so great, thy cruelty so terrible. Who shall wonder? 

God grant that somewhere to-day, in home of white, or tepee, hogan or 
cottage of thine own people, there dwell the youth, able in day not distant 
to tell the story of thy wars, thy massacres, thy revenge, as story is. 
Story of child-race love and patience, rewarded as we, the white race 
rewarded thee. 

Thou art here. What have we done with thee? Taken from thee this 

[ 22 ] 



tributes' to a vanishing race 


great continent by trickery and fraud, taught thee that a promise broken 
is better than a promise kept, given thee hell-brewed firewater to steal from 
thee thy manhood, and make thee what thou never wert — savage. Taken 
from thee, the male, the tasks of centuries, and filled thy hands with new 
tasks and strange; removed from thee thine age-long vision, and left thee 
blank, forbidden this, and this, and that, and then have called thee lazy. 

Debauched thy daughters, yea and thy wives, and taught both thee 
and them the power and scorching of white man’s lust. Given to thee 
diseases foul and dreadful. Called thee equal, and denied thee human 
rights. Whipped and scourged thee to tasks as slave, thou who wast 
never slave. What have we done to thee? This, and this, and that. 

What have we done to thee? Have felt the sting of conscience, the 
sense of justice, the tug of heart strings. Have seen thy helplessness and 
thy need. Have learned to call thee brother, and have felt the kinship of 
love for thee and thine. 

Have sent to thee our choice and high, from church and school, from 
store and office, to succor thee, to teach thee, white man’s way. 

Have stood as protector between thee and thy foes, and have moved the 
machinery of government in thy behalf. To thee, the Great White Father 
gives his pledge and love, even as those call him chief. Have spent our 
wampum at nation’s capitol, and in all the land where thou art, for those 
giving to thy need, thy future, their services and their lives. 

Have bidden our presses print for thee; our factories move their looms 
in thy behalf, our engineers and artisans plan and build for thee. What 
have we done to thee? Alas, this; and yet, this. 

What wilt thou do with thyself? Wilt thou take our deeds, of good, of 
bad; our omissions, our commissions, our stupidity, our blindness, our 
service, our love, our best even as our bad, and use it all, yea all for thine 
own best? 

Wilt thou see the door, and wide and high, now open before thee? Wilt 
thou look, and looking enter through it into opportunity and fulfillment? 
Wilt thou see that the glory of thy yesterday is fading fast, soon but golden 
memory? Wilt thou understand this, the night of transition, and see the 
dawning of new and better day, day of thy great greatness? 

What wilt thou do with thyself? Wilt thou take all this, the good, the 
bad, the light, the dark, the teaching new, the ways so strange, and fusing 
all, both in, and with thy mystic being, make thyself, as thou canst, potent 
element in the amalgam of the great new race — American? 


[23] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


EXTRACTS FROM “THE INDIAN TO-DAY” 

By Charles A. Eastman 
(Ohiyesa) 

George Guess, or Sequoyah, the inventor of the Cherokee alphabet, is 
the only Red Man admitted to the nation’s Hall of Fame in the Capitol 
at Washington. The Indian languages, more than fifty in number, are 
better appreciated and more studied to-day than ever before. Half our 
states have Indian names, and more than that proportion of our principal 
lakes and rivers. These names are as richly sonorous as they are packed 
with significance, and our grandchildren will regret it if we suffer the 
tongues that gave them birth to die out and be forgotten. 

Best of all, perhaps, we are beginning to recognize the Indian’s good 
sense and sanity in the way of simple living and the mastery of the great 
out of doors. Like him, the wisest Americans are living, playing, and 
sleeping in the open for at least a part of the year, receiving the vital 
benefits of the pure air and sunlight. His deeds are carved upon the very 
rocks; the names he loved to speak are fastened upon the landscape; and 
he still lives in spirit, silently leading the multitude, for the new generation 
have taken him for their hero and model. 

I call upon the parents of America to give their fullest support to those 
great organizations: the Boy Scouts and the Camp Fire Girls. The 
young people of to-day are learning through this movement much of the 
wisdom of the first American. In the mad rush for wealth we have too 
long overlooked the foundations of our national welfare. The contribution 
of the American Indian, though considerable from any point of view, is 
not to be measured by material acquirement. Its greatest worth is spiritual 
and philosophical. He will live, not only in the splendor of his past, the 
poetry of his legends and his art, not only in the interfusion of his blood 
with yours, and his faithful adherence to the new ideals of American 
citizenship, but in the living thought of the nation. 


[24] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


SA-CA’-GA-WE-A 

{The Indian girl who guided Lewis and Clark in their expedition to the Pacific ) 

By Edna Dean Proctor 

Sho-sho-ne Sa-ca’-ga-we-a — captive and wife was she 
On the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree; 

But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sun 
Back to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun. 

So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea, 

Stayed their marvelous journey in the land of the Minnetaree 
(The Red Men wondering, wary — Omaha, Mandan, Sioux — 

Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through), 

Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West, 

Her course as true as the swan’s that flew north to its reedy nest; 

Her eye as keen as the eagle’s when the young lambs feed below; 

Her ear alert as the stag’s at morn guarding the fawn and doe. 

Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree, 

And her foot as fleet as the antelope’s when the hunter rides the lea; 

In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair, 

And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there — 

Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest, 

Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest, 
Sho-sho-ne Sa-ca’-ga-we-a led the way to the West! — 

To Missouri’s broad savannas dark with bison and deer, 

While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled 
near; 

To the cataract’s leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom; 

The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon’s hush and gloom; 

By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim — 

Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon’s rim; 

Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free, 

And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea! 

Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide — 
Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific’s tide — 

There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dim 

While the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim, 

She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek, 
With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak; 

And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest, 

“Sho-sho-ne Sa-ca’-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!” 


[ 25 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE PRAYER OF A SIOUX INDIAN 

By permission Carlisle Red Man 

O Thou Great Spirit of the Universe, good and powerful as Thou art, 
whose powers are displayed in the splendors of the sun, the glories of the 
night, the foliage of the forest and the roaring of the rivers and the great 
waters of the deep, look down from Thy majestic throne of grace and shed 
the bounties upon all Red Men. And do Thou, O Great Spirit, inspire each 
Red Man’s breast with that holy courage that teaches him to paddle his own 
canoe safely to that undiscovered country from which bourne no traveler 
returns. Teach him truth and wisdom and brotherly love toward his 
brother Red Man; grant that his walks may be upright and pleasing in Thy 
sight; banish all discord from our council that our council fire may forever 
burn to Thy glory. 

Reward our labors twofold, and may the Red Man and the Paleface be 
friends, and may we show to the stranger that with us truth, love, freedom, 
and friendship dwell. Inspire our great councils with wisdom that they go 
not astray and follow the path of the evil spirit; preserve our homes from 
danger; make us wise and virtuous, and teach us the trail that we must 
follow while we remain in the forest of life; and, when it is Thy will to call 
us to cross the river of death, take us to Thyself where the council fire for¬ 
ever burns to Thy Glory. 

O, Thou Great Spirit, hear us! 


[26] 




Appeal to the Great Spirit 







TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


STORY OF LOGAN — A MINGO CHIEF 

In the spring of the year 1774 a robbery and murder were committed 
on an in habitant of the frontiers of Virg inia by two Indians of the Sha- 
wanese tribe. The neighboring whites, according to their custom, under¬ 
took to punish this outrage in a summary way. Colonel Cresap, a man 
infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much injured 
people, collected a party and proceeded down the Kanhaway in quest of 
vengeance. 

L nfortunatelv, a canoe of women and children, with one man only, 
was seen coming from the opposite shore, unarmed, and unsuspecting any 
hostile attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves 
on the bank of the river; and the moment the canoe reached the shore, 
singled out their objects, and, at one fire, killed even* person in it. 

This happened to be the family of Logan, who had long been dis¬ 
tinguished as the friend of the whites. This unworthy return provoked 
his vengeance. He accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. 

In the autumn of the same year, a decisive battle was fought at the 
mouth of the Great Kanhaway, between the collected forces of the Sha- 
wanese, Mingoes, and Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. 
The Indians were defeated, and sued for peace. 

Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but, lest 
the sincerity of a treaty should be distrusted, from which so distinguished a 
chief absented himself, he sent by a messenger the following speech to 
be delivered to Lord Dunmore: 

“I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan’s cabin 
hungry, and he gave him no meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he 
clothed him not. During the last long and bloody war, Logan remained 
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. 

“ Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they 
passed by, and said, Logan is the friend of white men. I had even thought 
to have lived with you, had it not been for the injuries of one man. Colonel 
Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the 
relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. 

“There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. 
This called on me for revenge. I have sought it; I have killed many; I 
have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams 
of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan 
never felt fear. 

“ He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn 
for Logan? Not one." 


[27] 













TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


AMERICAN INDIAN’S CONTRIBUTION TO MUSIC 

By Charles W. Cadman 

I believe America owes the American Indian a debt it cannot repay 
(to say nothing of the righting of wrongs this country has done the Indian). 
American literature, music, and the drama stand irrevocably linked with 
Indian life and thought, and as the years go on this association will be even 
more emphasized. The interest ethnologically and artistically through the 
Indian’s folklore and folksong, subjective as the latter is, has grown enor¬ 
mously the past decade, and we find few intellectual circles not touched 
with the influence. We composers who are making use of Indian traditions 
and folklore are honestly seeking to “leaven the loaf” of this public appre¬ 
ciation. 


A TRIBUTE TO THE RED MAN 

By Ex-Commissioner Leupp 

The Indian is a natural warrior, a natural logician, a natural artist. 
We have room for all three in our highly organized social system. Let us 
not make the mistake, in the process of absorbing them, of washing out of 
them whatever is distinctly Indian. Our aboriginal brother brings, as his 
contribution to the common store of character, a great deal which is admi¬ 
rable, and which needs only to be developed along the right line. Our 
proper work with him is improvement, not transformation. 


[28] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


ARROW-HEADS 

By Hento — A Wyandot 

Bit by bit with tireless effort, 

Was the hard flint flaked to form 
Tip for shaft and spear-head long ago. 
Time was less than naught in those days, 
And the end sufficed the needs 
Of the patient worker for his bow. 

Skilled in craft of plain and forest, 

Ever he must be alert 

In the haunts of bison or of deer. 

On the shores of lake or river 
Trod moccasined foot, 

As he sought shy quarry for his spear. 

Lithe of limb and strong of muscle 
Wends he o’er the portage, 

Shoulders bearing lightly his canoe. 
Should he meet a wily foeman 
As he treads the forest glades, 

His the need to dare then, and to do. 

Thoughts like these come as I wander 
Over plow-turned fields and find 
In my path an old arrow-head. 

As I weave in vivid fancy, 

As I scan the enduring flint, 

A measure of those brave warriors, dead. 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE DAUGHTER 

By John Greenleaf Whittier 

(From “The Bridal of Pennacook”—Courtesy Crowell Publishing Company.) 

The soot-black brows of men — the yell 
Of women thronging round the bed — 

The tinkling charm of ring and shell — 

The Powah whispering o’er the dead!—■ 

All these the Sachem’s home had known, 

When, on her journey long and wild 
To the dim World of Souls, alone, 

In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. 

Three bow-shots from the Sachem’s dwelling 
They laid her in the walnut shade, 

Where a green hillock gently swelling 
Her fitting mound of burial made. 

There trailed the vine in Summer hours — 

The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell — 

On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, 

Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine fell! 

The Indian’s heart is hard and cold — 

It closes darkly o’er its care, 

And, formed in Nature’s sternest mould, 

Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. 

The war-paint on the Sachem’s face, 

Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red, 

And, still in battle or in chase, 

Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath his foremost tread. 

Yet, when her name was heard no more, 

And when the robe her mother gave, 

And small, light moccasin she wore, 

Had slowly wasted on her grave, 

Unmarked of him the dark maids sped 
Their sunset dance and moon-lit play; 

No other shared his lonely bed, 

No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. 

A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes 
The tempest-smitten tree receives 
From one small root the sap which climbs 
Its topmost spray and crowning leaves, 

[ 3°1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


So from his child the Sachem drew 
A life of Love and Hope, and felt 
His cold and rugged nature through 
The softness and the warmth of her young being melt. 

A laugh which in the woodland rang 
Bemocking April’s gladdest bird — 

A light and graceful form which sprang 
To meet him when his step was heard — 

Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark, 

Small fingers stringing bead and shell 
Or weaving mats of bright-hued bark,— 

With these the household-god had graced his wigwam well. 

Child of the forest!— strong and free, 

Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair, 

She swam the lake or climbed the tree, 

Or struck the flying bird in air. 

O’er the heaped drifts of Winter’s moon 
Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter’s way; 

And dazzling in the Summer noon 
The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray! 

Unknown to her the rigid rule, 

The dull restraint, the chiding frown, 

The weary torture of the school, 

The taming of wild nature down. 

Her only lore, the legends told 
Around the hunter’s fire at night; 

Stars rose and set, the seasons rolled, 

Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight. 

Unknown to her the subtle skill 
With which the artist-eye can trace 
In rock and tree and lake and hill 
The outlines of divinest grace; 

Unknown the fine soul’s keen unrest 
Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway; 

Too closely on her mother’s breast 
To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay! 

It is enough for such to be 

Of common, natural things a part, 

To feel with bird and stream and tree 
The pulses of the same great heart; 

[ 3 1 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


But we from Nature long exiled 
In our cold homes of Art and Thought, 

Grieve like the stranger-tended child, 

Which seeks its mother’s arms, and sees but feels them not. 

The garden rose may richly bloom 
In cultured soil and genial air, 

To cloud the light of Fashion’s room 
Or droop in Beauty’s midnight hair, 

In lonelier grace, to sun and dew, 

The sweet-briar on the hillside shows 
Its single leaf and fainter hue, 

Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose! 

Thus o’er the heart of Weetamoo 
Their mingling shades of joy and ill 
The instincts of her nature threw,— 

The savage was a woman still. 

Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, 

Heart-colored prophecies of life 
Rose on the ground of her young dreams, 

The light of a new home — the lover and the wife! 


[ 3 2 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


EPIGRAM OF AN INDIAN 

The recent visit of the Crow Indian chiefs to the White House to see 
President Taft concerning the disposition of their lands has recalled a good 
story of old Shah-bah-skong, head chief of the Mille Lac, the memory of 
whom is still preserved in the Interior Department, and recalled by the 
St. Louis Republic. 

The chief took all his warriors to defend Fort Ripley in 1862, and for 
this act of bravery the Secretary of the Interior, the Governor and the 
Legislature of Minnesota promised the Indians that they should have the 
special care of the Government and never be compelled to move from their 
lands. 

A few years later a special agent was sent from Washington to ask the 
Ojibw r ay to cede their lands and remove to a country north of Leech Lake. 
The agent called the Indians in council and said: 

“My red brothers, your great father has heard how you have been 
wronged. He said: ‘I will send them an honest man.’ He looked in the 
North, the South, the East and the West. When he saw me he said: 
'This is the honest man whom I will send to my red children.’ Brothers, 
look at me! The winds of 55 years have blown over my head and silvered 
it over with gray, and in all that time I have never done wrong to any man. 
As your friend, I ask you to sign this treaty.” 

Old Shah-bah-skong sprang to his feet and said: “My friend, look at 
me! The winds of more than fifty winters have blown over my head and 
silvered it over with gray, but they have not blown my brain away.” 


[33 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS 

By William Cullen Bryant 
(Courtesy of the Crowell Publishing Company) 

It is the spot I came to seek,— 

My fathers’ ancient burial-place, 

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 

Withdrew our wasted race. 

It is the spot — I know it well — 

Of which our old traditions tell. 


For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river-side; 

I know the shaggy hills about, 

The meadows smooth and wide, 

The plains that, toward the southern sky, 
Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 

A white man, gazing on the scene, 

Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not — I would the plain 
Lay in its tall old groves again. 


The sheep are on the slopes around, 

The cattle in the meadows feed, 

And laborers turn the crumbling ground, 
Or drop the yellow seed, 

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 
Whirl the bright chariot o’er the way. 

Methinks it were a nobler sight 
To see these vales in woods arrayed, 
Their summits in the golden light, 

Their trunks in grateful shade, 

And herds of deer, that bounding go 
O’er rills and prostrate trees below. 

[ 34 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


And then to mark the lord of all, 

The forest hero, trained to wars, 
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 
The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 


This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours; 
Hither the artless Indian maid 

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 
And the gray chief and gifted seer 
Worshiped the god of thunders here. 


But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior’s breast, 
And scattered in the furrows lie 
The weapons of his rest, 

And there in the loose sand is thrown 
Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 


Ah, little thought the strong and brave, 
Who bore the lifeless chieftain forth; 

Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 

That the pale race, who waste us now, 
Among their bones should guide the plow. 


They waste us — aye — like April snow 
In the warm noon, we shrink away; 
And fast they follow, as we go 
Towards the setting day,— 

Till they shall fill the land, and we 
Are driven into the western sea. 


But I behold a fearful sign, 

To which the white men’s eyes are blind; 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 
And leave no trace behind, 

Save ruins o’er the region spread, 

And the white stones above the dead. 

Iasi 




TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
Full to the brim our rivers flowed; 

The melody of waters filled 
The fresh and boundless wood; 

And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 
And fountains spouted in the shade. 

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
The springs are silent in the sun, 

The rivers, by the blackened shore, 

With lessening current run; 

The realm our tribes are crushed to get 
May be a barren desert yet. 


A WELCOME 

By Mrs. Cato Sells 

Open-armed the Red Man welcomed 
Paleface pilgrim to his shore; 
Greetings glad as his, I send you, 
And good will, forevermore. 

Let us strive to help this brother, 
Greed and graft, injustice, cease; 

Let us seek his lodge of council; 

Let us smoke the pipe of peace. 


[36] 




TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


OUR WILD INDIANS 

By Colonel Richard I. Dodge 
(In “ Our Wild Indians”—1882) 

The mental capacity of the Indian is of superior order. His perceptive 
faculties are remarkably developed, and his reasoning powers are not to 
be despised, however crude. He is thoroughly master of all branches of 
education necessary to the comfort and safety of his savage life, thus 
giving evidence of capacity for a higher order of education. 

Within the limits of their territory they are “nomads” but the territory 
itself is their home. Their attachment to it is one of the strongest traits 
of their character. No people are more truly “lovers of their country,” 
no people suffer more from homesickness, when forced to leave it. ... 

And it must be conceded that the Indian behaves much better than we 
have any right to expect. 

The actual number of murders and outrages committed by Indians on 
citizens is so small as would scarcely be thought of if perpetrated by whites. 
In the summer of 1867, white men in Julesburg robbed and murdered more 
citizens than all the Indians have robbed and murdered during any one of 
ten years past. 

In 1873, Dodge City emulated the fame and shame of Julesburg; and 
at the present moment there is scarcely a busy town along the lines of 
railroad now pushing through Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, that does 
not have its almost daily murder. I may even come nearer to civilization; 
for I believe the records will show that more outrages on life and property 
have been perpetrated during the last year (1881) by whites in the two 
states of Kentucky and Missouri than in the same time by all the Indians in 
all the length and breadth of our extended frontier. 

I speak of outrages against citizens. The killing of soldiers is not to 
be regarded as murder or outrage. It is simply the necessary adjunct to 
our pernicious system of Indian management. 

The newspapers of the land are much to blame for the exaggerated 
feeling against Indians. The local paper of a frontier town will carefully 
avoid any mention of the daily or nightly killings by its inhabitants; but 
let a frontiersman be killed, or even scared by Indians, and column after 
column is devoted to the minutest, and most generally imaginary, details. 
This can readily be accounted for; each little frontier town desiring the 
presence of troops, not for protection, but for the money they spend. 

That the Eastern papers should so readily take up this cry, giving a line 
to a murder by a Kentucky gentleman, a column to a murder by an Indian, 
can only be accounted for by the desire for sensation. 


[37] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE NAVAJO BLANKET 

By Edwin L. Sabin 

Out in the land of little rain, 

Of canyon rift and cactus plain, 

An Indian woman, short and swart, 
This blanket wove with patient art; 
And day to day, through all a year, 
Before her loom, by pattern queer, 

She stolidly a story told, 

A legend of her people old. 

With thread on thread and line on line, 
She wrought each curious design, 

The symbol of the day and night, 

Of desert and of mountain height, 

Of journey long and storm-beset, 

Of village passed and dangers met, 

Of wind and season, cold and heat, 

Of famine harsh and plenty sweet. 

Now in this paleface home it lies, 
’Neath careless, unsuspecting eyes, 
Which never read the tale that runs 
A course of ancient mystic suns. 

To us ’tis simply many-hued, 

Of figures barbarous and rude; 

Appeals in vain its pictured lore; 

An Indian blanket — nothing more. 


[38] 



i 



Navajo Women Weaving 






























TRIBUTES TO A V A NISHING RACE 


THE AMERICAN INDIAN 

(Written of Chief Seattle, whose statue was unveiled in the city of Seattle) 

Author unknown 

Savage he was. No books of ancient lore 
Fed him on knowledge of the aeons gone. 

No teacher led him to explore 
The mystic meaning of Creation’s dawn. 

No poet or philosopher he knew 

To fire the soul with love and faith and truth. 

Among the whispering firs his childhood grew, 

The mountains fired the spirit of his youth, 

The sounding sea his manhood wonder filled, 

The all-embracing sun his way inspired; 

Night in his path her silver beauty spilled, 

And Nature for him all her voices choired. 

Behold, he stands, the peer of any age, 

A leader, chieftain, ruler, prophet, sage. 


[39] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE INDIAN AS THE SOCIAL EQUAL OF THE 

WHITE MAN . 

By Gabe E. Parker 

Being an Indian is a serious business. I’ll tell you why. The white 
man has two mental pictures. Looking into the past, he sees a painted 
brave clothed in a breech-clout and a head-dress of feathers. Coming 
into the present, he sees a red vagabond sunning himself on the platform of 
a little railway station built in the sagebrush or among the cactuses. The 
first picture may be true to nature but it is obsolete. The second picture 
is a slander upon a race that is honestly trying to adjust itself to the civiliza¬ 
tion of the aliens now the lords and masters of this continent. 

I am no sorehead. The government and the people of the United States, 
I am sure, have always wanted to treat the Indians fairly. The white 
man was destined to rule this country. Some day the Anglo-Saxon will 
govern the world. The decree has been written and will be carried out. 
Nothing could have stopped the conquest of America by the white men 
who came to these shores in strange looking ships. I say, therefore, that 
when the red race runs into the white race and vanishes forever, the 
latter race will gain in fidelity, honesty, singleness of purpose, industry and 
the power of observation. I mentioned industry. That is the word I wish 
to emphasize. Shall an Indian imprisoned on a sandy waste and fed out 
of a public storehouse be called indolent? 

The Indian is a worker, instinctively, the habit being formed, of course, 
by necessity. He had to live, and he hunted assiduously. He had to 
defend his property and he fought persistently. If he sat down he starved 
or fell into the slavery of his enemies. So he was always up and always 
doing. He suffered many hardships. He tracked his foes day and night. 
No one has a right to say that he w T as lazy. 

White children are now being taught quickly to see and note all things 
coming within their vision. Alertness of eye and mind is a part of the 
modern scheme of education. The Indian boy and girl have it already. 
Were an Indian to come into this office when it was crowded with men of a 
dozen different nationalities, he would see them all, from the hats in their 
hands to the shoes on their feet, and could afterward describe their faces, 
even to the color of their eyes and hair, and the fashion of their whiskers. 
Moreover, he would know the number of books in that case against the 
wall. Nothing would escape his observation. Should you look at him 
you would think him engaged with his own reflections and blind to all 
that was happening. 

Away back in the family his warring and hunting ancestors learned to 
see the hairs of a bear or a deer on the leaves of a bush in the forest; to 
note whether a twig was broken by a man or an animal traveling east or 

[40] 



% 

tl 

TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


west, and to read the tracks of birds and beasts as you and I read a news¬ 
paper. Seeing a sign they reasoned a subject to its conclusion. So they 
were thinking men as well as men of action. The Indian has power, 
mentally. He was a sagacious warrior, a general of great ability and his 
eloquence brought him many compliments from white orators. Apush- 
mataha knew more about the geography of the Southwest than did Andrew 
Jackson and the engineers of the army. “You are wrong,” he once told 
Jackson, and then with a pencil and a piece of paper drew an accurate map 
of Texas and Northern Mexico. 

Also I mentioned fidelity and honesty as traits of red character. An 
Indian is faithful even after he has been tricked out of his rights and prop¬ 
erty. He is honest, inherently, and his word is good. Against him, I 
know, is the charge of cruelty. Scalping, however, was a detail in his 
bookkeeping. “I killed so many,” he would report to his chief or his 
village and then would clinch the argument with proof and claim his reward. 
White men, the best of them, are required to give bonds and do work 
under written specifications. Besides, scalps were taken, ordinarily, 
after death had occurred. 

Now, I do not paint the Indian as being a perfect, though a rude, 
character. There are good Indians and bad ones just as there are good and 
bad white men. Some Indians are thrifty and some are improvident; some 
are industrious and some are not; some are smart and some are dull. An 
Indian, and that is all I claim for him, is a human being, capable of remark¬ 
able development. Samuel Ely Parker — he was no relation of mine, by 
the way—was a full-blood Seneca. He studied civil engineering and suc¬ 
cessfully practiced his profession at Galena, Illinois. Grant knew him and 
made him a member of his staff and his secretary. Aiter the Civil War he 
was an officer in the regular army. 

Another, Parker-Quanah, the Comanche chief, lived in a fine house and 
owned thousands of cattle and hundreds of horses. The Southwest to-day 
is filled with successful Indian business men, lawyers, preachers, physicians 
and teachers. They helped to write the constitution of Oklahoma, and in 
all modesty let me add that I was among their number. When the 
Jesuit missionaries came to Canada in the sixteenth century they found 
Indians who were opulent in furs, being forehanded men, and Indians who 
were incompetents and spendthrifts. 

The Indian has traveled up and down the road of human experiences in 
business and self-government, I want to tell "you. Primitively, he was a 
communist. White men are still practicing his abandoned experiment. 
Then he came to perceive the sound philosophy of private property. His 
weapons were his own. He made them and used them, for himself as a 
hunter and for his tribe as a patriotic member. 

In the social principles of his living he was the equal of the white man. 
And that is the seed of my argument. Give the Indian a chance. Don’t 

[41] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


treat him as a child. Let him live on his land, with a deed of it between 
the leaves of his Bible or hidden away in his closet, and if he has more land 
than he requires, permit him to sell the surplus and buy machinery and 
live stock. There will be failures — all white men are not millionaires — 
but the Indian question, as it is called, will be closed. 


COMMENTS 

By O. H. L. 

In years gone by, war was wont to rear his horrid front o’er many an 
Indian camp, but his bullets were never half so deadly as the “liquid 
jimmy” frequently employed by the “grafter” to pry the Indian loose from 
his property. 

The Hotchkiss and the Gatling guns were to the Indians in war instru¬ 
ments of mercy as compared with the “booze bottle” in these piping times 
of peace. 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE. 


WAMPUM 

The celebrated wampum was a species of bead cut from the shell of the 
clam, conch, or other shell-bearing mollusk of the coast or the larger streams. 

The common name is derived from an Algonquin word signifying white y 
and was properly applied only to one variety, the generic term varying with 
the tribe. The beads were cylindrical rather than globular, and were of 
two colors, white and purple or dark. They were rated at definite values. 

The wampum was manufactured by the coast tribes, being traded by 
them to those of the interior, and was largely used everywhere east of the 
Mississippi for necklaces, collars, belts, and other purposes of personal 
adornment, as well as in connection with the noted wampum belts, by 
means of which the memory of treaties and tribal traditions was handed 
down. 

These belts were woven with various designs in wampum, either picto- 
graphic or symbolic, the meaning of which was preserved and explained on 
public occasion by an officer appointed to that duty. In ancient times 
no treaty or covenant was considered binding, and no tribal embassy was 
recognized as official, without the delivery of a wampum belt as a guaranty 
and memorial. The Colonial documents are full of references to this 
custom. 

Up to the end of the last century the Cherokees still tendered such belts 
in their treaties with the Government, and one was delivered in the same 
manner so late as the treaty of Prairie des Chiens in 1825. 

On account of the high estimation in which these shell beads were held 
they were frequently used in the East as a standard of exchange, as eagle 
feathers were in the West. 


1 43 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


WHEREFORE, WHITE MAN? 

By Medicine Arrow 

White Man, you taught us that war was wrong. You told us to turn 
from the war-path; you said we should live at peace with other tribes of our 
own people and with yours. We listened to your words. We have re¬ 
membered them. All that you told us to do, we have done. Our lances 
are broken. Our bows are burned and our arrows are lost. Our tomahawks 
are buried so deep that they have been forgotten. The once keen edge of the 
scalping knife is dulled with the rust of many years. The useless shield 
hangs on the wall like the picture of an age that is past. The drum of the 
war-dance is heard no more. The green grass of the prairie has spread its 
cloak over the last trace of the ancient war-path to hide it from our eyes 
forever. The bright path of peace is the only one known to our young 
men. Our people sing the songs of peace. It is well. 

White Man, you told us that it was the will of the Great Spirit that we 
should go to war no more. Do you think that He will be unmindful if 
you draw your sword against another people of your own race? If war 
was wrong for the Red Man, can it be right for the White Man, or has 
truth itself become untrue? 

White Man, you still sing the songs of war. You teach the stories of 
w r ar to your young men. Your horses are trained to travel the trails that 
lead to war. The tread of your armies is more terrible than flood or 
tempest. The thunder of your mighty guns makes the earth heave and 
tremble. You soar to the clouds like the war-eagle. You defy the demons 
of the deep with craft that are wafted beneath the waves. Yet vain are 
all the powers thus called to your aid! 

White Man, despise not the words of your Red Brother who is humble 
and weak. Listen to the message of him whom you once called a savage. 
Learn for yourself the lesson you once taught to him. Turn from your 
ways of war into the paths of peace. 

The words of your Red Brother’s tongue are as the impulse of his heart. 
He has spoken. 


[44] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


TO AN INDIAN GIRL 

(A bronze by Salvator Bilotte, Paris) 

By Joseph Roy Ellis 

Thy pose is one of sadness and thy face 
Doth breathe of world-old sorrows and the pain 
Which must belong to those in your domain 
Who see the fading remnants of a race 
Once ruling free, with wild, untutored grace. 

You fought a stronger foe. To you, defeat 
Was not surrender, but a flight, to meet 
Again on Western uplands. Who can trace 
Your steps? The long trail to the setting sun 
Is marked with graves of warriors from the fray 
With fate. Thy matchless empire has been won 
By Anglo-Saxon emigrant. Thy day 
Is past. Like twilight when the day is done 
Your spirit lingers, ere it slips away. 


A WYANDOT LULLABY 

By Hento — A Wyandot 

Hush thee and sleep, little one, 

The feathers on thy board sway to and fro; 

The shadows reach far downward in the water; 
The great old owl is waking, day will go. 

Sleep thee and dream, little one, 

The gentle branches swing you high and low; 

Thy father far away among the hunters 
Has loosed his bow, is thinking of us now. 

Rest thee and fear not, little one, 

The flitting firefly lights you on your way 

To the land of dreams, while in the grasses, 

The chirping cricket lilts his merry lay. 

Mother watches always o’er her little one, 

The great owl cannot harm you, slumber on 

’Till pale lights are shooting from the eastward 
And the twittering of birds say night is gone. 

[45] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE RED MAN’S PHANTOM 

By Edna Hamilton 
Permission Carlisle Red Man 

Far out o’er the sands of the desert, 

The last faint sun rays fall, 

Far off in the bluish hills, 

The night bird begins to call; 

And the long, long bark of the coyote 
As it glides thro’ the sagebrush gray, 

And the lonesome song of the cricket, 

All blend with the fading day. 

As the stars shine up in heaven, 

And the dews of the night softly fall, 

A figure glides over the desert, 

A figure, dark, slender, and tall, 

With bowed head and blanket wrapped around him, 
His hair gently drifts with the breeze. 

The Red Man wields no weapon — 

He is following the call of the trees. 

He steps, lifts his head, and listens 
To the song that the cricket sings, 

And over the sage and the sand 

He sees the phantom of other things. 

His gaze soars away to the westward, 

Where the sun has fallen from sight, 

And with a great and noble longing, 

He rushes onward through the night. 

He has traveled far away from the cities, 

Where he bowed to the pale-faced will, 

But to-night, as his feet speed onward, 

He bows to a greater one still. 

His heart goes forth to the prairies, 

Out to the plains of the West, 

Forth to the hills of his childhood, 

Where his fathers eternally rest. 

The phantom comes nearer and nearer, 

The rivers and trees are all there, 

And his voice, as it did in boyhood, 

Rings through the gladsome air. 

There’s the buffalo feeding gently 
On the plains in the valley below, 

And the clouds are floating serenely 
Above the eternal peaks of snow. 

[46] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


And now he is calling the wild fowl 
Thro’ the canyon dark and deep, 

And now he is chasing the deer 

Up the mountain side, rough and steep. 

But at last dawns a morn of sorrow 
For a child of the wind and sun, 

His days of freedom are over, 

His race is nearly run; 

No more will he chase the deer 
Up the mountain rough and steep, 

No more will he call the wild bird 
Thro’ the canyon dark and deep; 

His arrow is thrown to the ground, 

Beside a warrior old and gray, 

That the feet of the white man trample, 

As he cruelly pursues his way. 

Then through the years of toil 
That pass like a torturing dream, 

The volcano that was only slumbering, 

Bursts forth in a fearful stream. 

He breaks the chain that bound him, 

Like a frail and slender reed, 

And he turned his face to the westward, 

Back where the buffalo feed. 

His eyes grow dim and he falters, 

As the phantom fades away. 

O for one more glimpse of the prairies, 

And the hills his fathers trod! 

Then he could ascend in peace, 

Up to his own true God. 

As the moon rises bright in its glory, 

And nature is sweetly at rest, 

The Spirit of one of God’s children 

Soars peacefully beyond the plains of the West. 


[47] 




TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


ORIGIN OF THE BUFFALO 

A Dakolah Legend 
By Wenonah 

In the good old days when the Red Children gathered around the camp 
fires in the dear old hunting ground of our fathers, many a legend did the 
old people tell of the origin of things. 

I give here one of their stories telling of the origin of the buffalo — the 
one animal hard for an old Indian to give up. 

On one of the broad plains at the edge of an extended forest lived Yellow 
Bird and her four brothers. One season food became very scarce because 
the long winter held them close locked within its icy and lingering grasp. 
The quest for food and game became more and more difficult for the brothers 
as the season advanced. 

To Yellow Bird’s lot fell the task of gathering the dry roseberries so 
common in that part of the country; with these she made a slightly nourish¬ 
ing soup which kept the wolf of hunger from the door for a time. 

One day as Yellow Bird was making one of her trips through the woods, 
she saw a buffalo run by, a hunter with bow and arrow close following at its 
heels. 

She saw the mysterious hunter kill the buffalo, skin it, and take up the 
meat and hurriedly carry it away, leaving nothing that she could make 
use of but the hoofs. But she gathered up these and returned home to tell 
her brothers of her encounter with the strange hunter in the forest. 

Often after this in her wanderings through forest and over prairie, 
Yellow Bird would meet the hunter whom she called Selfishman. Although 
he never spoke to her at any time, she determined to follow him and find 
out where he lived. This she did, and in a secluded place in the woods she 
saw a large tipi, surrounded by rows upon rows of dried meat. Yellow 
Bird crept up to the tipi and found the strange man seated inside making 
and mending arrows. Though she received no invitation to enter she re¬ 
mained within speaking distance, and when the Selfishman made ready 
his noon-day meal he offered Yellow Bird some wasna, a combination of 
dried meat and chokecherries ground up and made into cakes — similar 
to pemican used by North Pole explorers. This wasna is considered a 
delicacy among the Dakotah Indians, and Yellow Bird was glad of the 
chance to get some. But the food tendered to her was taken back as 
quickly as offered. 

The Selfishman then made known to Yellow Bird his dislike for her 
brothers who were makers of whistles and drums. He also told her how he 
dreaded the near approach of spring on account of the coming of the owl, 
whose hoot he feared as much as he did her brothers’ weird music. 

When Yellow Bird returned home she repeated this conversation to her 
four brothers who sat about making their musical instruments. The 

[48] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


brothers were so impressed with the story that they determined not to be 
content until they could perfect some instrument that imitated exactly the 
hoot of the owl, hoping by this means at some time to deceive the hunter 
and be able to take from him his abundant supplies. 

They were at last successful and when all was completed to their satis¬ 
faction, the four sought the lodge of the Selfishman. They secreted them¬ 
selves near by until darkness was about them, then through the silence of 
the forest they sent forth the dreaded notes of ill omen. Hearing them the 
hunter was frightened, and in his attempt to conceal himself from the near 
presence of what he thought was the owl, he covered himself so tightly with 
his many buffalo skins that he was suffocated. 

Discovering what had happened, the brothers made a great rejoicing and 
seized upon the contents of the tipi, which was now theirs by right of 
possession. They feasted on the rich stores as they had not feasted for 
many moons. After hunger had been satisfied, they made a search, for a 
certain magic bag which the Selfishman had at one time shown to Yellow 
Bird. They were successful in finding it and when they opened it, out 
came a buffalo and a man with a bow and arrow ready for the chase. 

In their excitement over their wonderful discovery the brothers forgot 
to close the bag and all the buffaloes escaped to the prairies, where they 
multiplied greatly and became the chief food for all the people. 

The Dakotahs believe this was the origin of the buffalo. 


[49] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


MAN TO MAN 

By Walter S. Campbell 

Catlin relates that a certain chief, whose portrait he made in profile, 
was deeply offended, and declared the painter had made him but “half a 
man.” This story is my parable. 

It is commonly assumed that the great expansion of our knowledge 
and activity known as civilization completely overshadows and puts to 
shame the simple life of primitive man. We are accustomed to look upon 
the American Indian, though admittedly the highest type of early man, 
with mingled feelings of pity and contempt. The pity, at least, is mis¬ 
placed. 

Without doubt, civilization in the aggregate has advantages that no 
one can gainsay, but from the point of view of the individual, the benefit is 
not so clear. I do not mean to quote the old platitudes of the theory of 
compensation here, but to refer to a deeper and more spiritual distinction. 

Civilization has been hatched from the cuckoo’s egg in man’s nest, and 
already the nestling has crowded the rightful heirs into the corners. We 
have cherished it, and it is too big for us. A man cannot comprehend one 
thousandth part of it. He is forced to specialize, to narrow his field of 
work, to subdivide and split life into ever smaller and more infinite fractions 
in order to master the fraction and live by his partial skill. Every day a 
new profession is born; every day man is more hopelessly outdistanced by 
this tyrannous child of his imagination. The old ideal of “knowing some¬ 
thing of everything” has melted into thin air. The most favored and stren¬ 
uous of mankind can but dabble here and there a little by neglecting his 
proper specialty. Men pass lifetimes in the study of some department of 
science or of art. And so we have artists without faith, scientists with¬ 
out taste, men of religion without knowledge, and a mass of people without 
any of the three. None of us can be complete. In spite of our best efforts 
we are inevitably “damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.” 

With primitive man how different! The division of labor had not yet 
cramped his manhood. Simple and crude as his civilization must appear, 
it was comprehensible, and not too large for the mastery of any able man. 
He found time to be all things. Though his art was crude, he could soon 
learn its simple conventions and satisfy his craving for creation. If his 
music was undeveloped, he could learn its rules and compose airs that 
pleased his ear. His science was limited, yet it served to lead him to the 
game that fed his family. His battles were as the battles of the kites and 
crows, yet they held a place for every tribesman. And dark as was his 
belief, every man had a part in the offices of religion. Orator, councilor, 
warrior, artist, huntsman, father, and priest, he was indeed all things, 
literally master of all he surveyed. Like the Homeric heroes, he knew the 
fullness of life. He was the first — and last — all-round American. 

[50] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


This broad development appeared in his manner and features. It gave 
rise to the phrase “the noble Red Man.” It was felt by all who came into 
contact with Indians of the older type. Study the photographs of the old 
chiefs, and you will see faces that equal in dignity and power the idealized 
portraits of the Roman emperors. The relentless will of Geronimo, the 
massive power of Red Cloud in his prime, the capacity and poise of Chief 
Joseph prove without words the breadth and character of their training. 
Such a man was, no doubt, elemental, but the elements were 
“ So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world, ‘This was a man!’ ” 


ORIGIN OF SCALPING 

From Our Wild Indians 

The origin of the Indian custom of taking the scalps of their slain enemies 
seems to be lost in obscurity. 

The books of the Maccabees, in speaking of the atrocities and cruelties 
practised on the Jews by the Syrian monarch Antiochus the Great, state 
that “the skin was torn from the head.” Scalping would seem, therefore, 
to have been a Syrian, and probably a Jewish custom. 


NATURE’S ORATOR 

By Red Jacket 

Brother, our seats were once large, and yours were small. You have 
now become a great people, and we have scarcely a place left to spread our 
blankets. You have got our country, but are not satisfied; you want to 
force your religion upon us. 


[so 



-K 

TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


POCAHONTAS 

By William M. Thackeray 

Wearied arm and broken sword 
Wage in vain the desperate fight; 
Round him press a countless horde, 
He is but a single knight. 

Hark a cry of triumph shrill 

Through the wilderness resounds, 
As with twenty bleeding wounds 
Sinks the warrior fighting still. 

Now they heap the fatal pyre, 

And the torch of death they light; 
Ah! ’tis hard to die of fire! 

Who will shield the captive knight? 
Round the stake with fiendish cry 
Wheel and dance the savage crowd, 
Cold the victim’s mien and proud, 
And his breast is bared to die. 

Who will shield the fearless heart? 

Who avert the murderous blade? 
From the throng, with sudden start, 
See there springs an Indian maid. 
Quick she stands before the knight: 

“Loose the chain, unbind the ring; 
I am daughter of the king, 

And I claim the Indian right!” 

Dauntlessly aside she flings 
Lifted axe and thirsty knife; 

Fondly to his heart she clings, 

And her bosom guards his life! 

In the wood of Powhatan 
Still ’tis told by Indian fires, 

How a daughter of their sires 
Saved the captive Englishman. 


[ 52 ] 
























































TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


TREAT THE INDIAN RIGHT 

By Minneapolis Tribune 

The story of how General Scott induced the Paiute Indians to return 
to the reservation, and brought four of them in to answer to a charge of 
murder without a guard or a handcuff, shows how unnecessary most of our 
Indian troubles have been. It shows that if we had always treated the Red 
Man as he has been treated by this soldier, we might have avoided “A 
Century of Dishonor.” 

All the Indian asks is a square deal, and that is what he has seldom 
received from the white man. Next to the dark blot of slavery which we 
have tried to wash out with the blood of nearly half a million of our best and 
bravest, is the stain upon our national honor of robbery, and slaughter and 
contamination by the white man’s vices of a race which received the white 
man with kindness and hospitality, and would always have been his friend 
if it had been treated as the stronger should always treat the weaker. It is 
too late to make to a nearly vanished race the amends that are due, but we 
can at least treat the remnant in such a fashion as our tardily awakened 
conscience can approve. It was inevitable, doubtless, that the Indian 
should disappear, but it was not necessary nor Christian, nor even economic, 
that he should be exterminated as he has been. The manner of his going 
remains forever an abundant source of shame to every American student 
of his country’s history. 


[S3] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


OUR INDIAN PROBLEM 

By Brigadier-General R. H. Pratt, LL.D. 

About three hundred thousand of our population are classed as Indians. 
A very considerable proportion of these have white blood. There are men 
and women on the rolls of the Indian system who have as much as sixty- 
three parts of white blood and only one of Indian. Almost all mixed bloods 
are the products of white fathers and Indian mothers. Many men among 
these mixed bloods, through fatherly ambition and right chances, have 
developed large ability and gained high place in the Nation. Just now two 
of our National Senators and two members of the House of Representatives 
have Indian blood. 

But there have been also great men of pure Indian blood. Uneducated 
and untrained, they have shown remarkable state-craft and generalship. 
Among these, Red Jacket, Tecumseh, Chief Joseph, and scores of others, 
both in the earlier history of the country and in these later days, many of 
whom became my personal friends. If these had been given education and 
the chance, they would have written their names high on the scroll of 
America’s wonderful progress. 

One fourth of the money we spent in enforcing Indians to continue their 
tribal life, if wisely spent in merging them into our life and industries, as 
Washington, Jefferson and other fathers of the Republic urged, would have 
incorporated them as useful, self-supporting citizens long ago. 

Our school histories and daily published accounts of the Indians, and 
almost all of our writings have presented false views of their qualities 
and characters. 

The Indian is as much entitled to be judged by comparison as any man. 
Judged by this, he is not as brutal as the boasted race which has encompassed 
and oppressed him. He is kindly and responsive and even more charitable 
than the educated and trained people of the master race. 

The Indian was forced into treaties and on to the resulting reservations. 
Government officials wrote the treaties and army presence compelled 
acceptance. Were the treaties then kept? General Sherman, who headed 
the greatest of all Indian treaty commissions, said, “The Government has 
made hundreds of treaties with the Indians, and never kept one.” 

Is it hard to see that if the same fraternity, brotherhood and merging we 
used to unify the other races had been adopted in our relations with the 
Indians, the Indians would long ago easily have become a useful and con¬ 
tented part of our population? 

Slavery never more harshly grasped the negro as a race or compelled its 
intentions as relentlessly. To enforce our decrees we used the whip on the 
negro, but the gun on the Indian. 


[54] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


POOR LO 

By Wenonah 

Poor Lo’s sun is setting in the west, 

Where once he roamed free at his best. 

The buffalo he hunted on the plain,— 

His life it was intended to sustain,— 

Driven are now away forever, 

By white man’s avarice, as ever. 

Red plumed warriors of the plain 
Ne’er sought game just for the gain. 

By his need for clothes and food 
He hunted with intentions good. 

Gone is now his hunting ground — 

*Wa-si-cun has it all around. 

Corralled oft in high stockades, 

Wigwams burned, he has no aid, 

For a higher government 
His lands to gather in has meant. 

Sad has been his suffering, 

Death would be sweet offering. 

All he held dear has been taken, 

Graves been looted then forsaken; 

Driv’n like wild beasts o’er the land 
Submission won by schemers bland; 

Brave hearted once, now sad and sore, 

A nobly courageous people no more. 

America’s dealings with her wards 
Have oft been sung by many bards. 

Injustice could have been averted, 

But treaties made have been diverted 

With motives low, unjust, and base 
To benefit only the alien race. 

No more the circling camp fires burn! 

No more they counsel in grave concern, 

Our fathers, who fought so valiantly 
To keep their lands indefinitely 

Red sons, red daughters onward bound 
Have peace at last in Happy Hunting Ground. 

*Wasicun is white man in Sioux. 

[55] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


MIGRATION OF THE CHOCTAWS 

From Vicksburg Sentinel , February 18th, 1845 

The last remnants of this once powerful tribe are now crossing our ferry 
on their way to their new home in the far west. To one who, like the 
writer, has been familiar with their bronze, inexpressive faces from infancy, 
it brings associations of peculiar sadness to see them bidding here a last 
farewell to the old hills which gave them birth, and are doubtless equally 
dear, to him and them alike. The first playmates of our infancy were the 
young Choctaw boys of the then woods of Warren County. Their languages 
was scarcely less familiar to us than the mother English. We know, we 
think, the character of the Choctaw well. We knew many of their present 
stalwart braves in those days of early life, when Indian and white alike 
forget to disguise but, in the unchecked exuberance of youthful feeling, 
show the real character that policy and habit may afterward so much con¬ 
ceal; and we know that, under the stolid, stoic look which he assumes, 
there is burning in the Indian’s nature a heart of fire and feeling and an all 
observing keenness of apprehension that marks and remembers everything 
that occurs and every insult he receives. Cunni at-ahabl They are going 
away! With a visible reluctance which nothing has ever overcome but 
the stern necessity that they feel impelling them, they have looked their 
last upon the graves of their fathers and the scenes of their youth and 
have taken up their- slow, toilsome march, with their household goods 
among them, to their new home in a strange land. They leave names to 
many of our rivers, towns and counties and, so long as our state remains, 
the Choctaws, who once owned most of her soil, will be remembered. 


[56] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


\ 


WHY THE SWALLOW’S BACK IS BLACK 

Anonymous 

An Indian legend tells us that when men first came on earth they had 
no fire. The Great Spirit taught them how to do many things; he taught 
them how to get game among the trees, fish from the waters, and corn and 
beans from the earth, but fire they themselves must learn to make. 

Even with all the gifts they had showered upon them, they were not 
happy, but kept thinking all the time of the one thing which they still 
wanted, instead of enjoying the many gifts which were already theirs. 
All fire was then in the sun, and they could think of no way to get it. Men 
could not reach it in any way, and no bird cared to go after it. 

Finally, the swallow, who could fly more swiftly than any of the other 
birds, offered to go to the sun so far away and bring this gift to men. 

Many, many days he flew, and as he came near the sun the feathers on 
his back were all burned black by the sun. When the heat became so great 
that he could go no farther, he was compelled to return to the earth without 
the long-wished-for fire. 

No one ever tried to get fire from the sun again, but long years after¬ 
ward men learned how to make fire by rubbing sticks together. 

The story must be true, for, even now, the swallow’s back is still black. 


[57] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE NATIVE INHABITANT OF NORTH AMERICA 

By John F. Palmer 

Because of somebody’s mistake, the native of North America has been 
styled an Indian. The truth is, there was little similarity between the 
North American referred to, and the East Indian after whom he was 
named. The native North American might truly be styled one of Nature’s 
children. He had and still has in him all that is best in human nature. Fie 
had and still has in him too much that is bad in human nature. 

Among the things that have stood out most prominently in his makeup 
and characteristics has been his religion. By religion is meant his belief 
in and his love of God. He believes that nothing but good comes from God; 
he firmly believes in a hereafter; he does not believe that any harm will 
come to him in that hereafter; the “Happy Hunting Grounds” so oft 
referred to is his dream of happiness hereafter, immeasurable and unending. 
His belief in and his love of his Creator is his ideal of what is the highest law. 

He was and is obedient to law. He went to war; he pursued the avoca¬ 
tions of a precarious peace in blind obedience to what he deemed to be the 
law. It might be that his purpose in war was to defend a domain that he 
believed to be his own; it might be for the purpose of taking the life of an 
enemy to appease the wrath of his Maker evidenced by the loss of one of his 
own beloved; it might be that he was prompted by ambition to gain a 
high place in the esteem of his fellows, of being known as a chivalric warrior 
and noted strategist; it might be that he was prompted by the purpose of 
securing for his people a region where they could live in greater security 
and happiness; but everywhere, at all times, he was obedient to the law as 
he saw it. 

He loved the truth, and he practiced it; his word could be taken at all 
times; he would not violate the truth e’en though it cost him his life. A 
striking example in this regard has been instanced even of late years, when 
awaiting execution for the violation of law, he was given a short period for 
the preparation of his earthly affairs, and gave his word that he would return 
to the “block” at the appointed hour, and thus give public atonement for 
a wrong done, and in every case he appeared with punctuality and un¬ 
perturbed. 

One of his greatest delights has ever been to share his wordly goods, the 
result of his own industries or activities, with those less fortunate. Trophies 
of war held to be inestimable in value were given to a friend with a prodigal 
abandon as graceful as it was unselfish. 

The wayfarer having met with misfortune and approaching his door, 
could feel sure that the hospitality extended to him would, if necessary, 
include the last atom of food and the last bit of raiment. 

He has never worshiped at Mammon’s unholy shrine. That “money 
is the root of all evil,” need never have been written for his guidance or for 

[ 58 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


his avoidance. His generosity was a sufficient antidote to the poisons 
that emanated from the fumes of Mammon’s censers. 

Ele was a lover of liberty and a disciple of freedom, so near to nature that 
he not only loved it, but was an integral part of it. He never at any time 
has been willing to give up his freedom. In thousands upon thousands of 
cases he gave up his life, more than that, he took his life by plunging into the 
seas or off the brink of precipices, to retain his liberty so long as he lived 
rather than live in bondage or slavery in any form or to any extent. He 
has been the one untamable, absolutely by free man that slavery could not 
clutch, cower, or hold. 

He loved his family. For them he braved the vicissitudes that would 
ever beset him, calmly endured hardships that were incident to his life 
throughout all of his history and tradition. He nourished his family with 
a tenderness that seems strangely at variance with his austerity. He in¬ 
dulged them with a prodigality that was excessive. He cherished the 
memory of them with a constancy that extended to his latest breath, and he 
mourned for them with a sorrow that was so vehement and awful as to 
inspire the observer with awe, if not with terror. Mourning for his beloved 
at all times was coupled with prayers to his God. 

He held womanhood in high esteem, and looked to the marriage relation 
as something sacred, the absolute mainstay of his race. Proud as he might 
be of his lineage, the same was always traced through the female line. To 
the eldest daughter at her marriage went all the earthly belongings of 
father and of mother. He zealously guarded all womanhood from the 
attacks of enemies of forest, plain, and sea, and was at all times solicitous 
as to her good name to the end that the lineage of his descendants would not 
be marred by dishonor’s stain. To properly maintain the marriage relation 
was his one hope for his people, next to his trust in God. He recognized 
that the inexorable law of heredity dictates that like begets like, and he was 
ever exceedingly anxious that the mother especially should be above 
reproach. 

These are some of the attributes that he brings into the citizenship of 
this great republic of freedom in the new world. He has nothing to be 
ashamed of. He was as valorous as any and all of his enemies. He was 
as generous as any and all of his fellow creatures. He loved the truth, 
freedom and liberty. He sanctioned the marriage relation. He esteemed 
womanhood, he reverenced age, and these lofty attributes will be blended 
to the extent of his amalgamation with the people of all countries that have 
set up the altar of liberty, the glorious American Republic in this his native 
heath, the sacred and revered resting place of his ancestors. 

This child of nature is susceptible to the evils and vices incident to 
modern civilization to an extent that is truly deplorable. It is unnecessary 
and mayhap unwise to refer in greater detail to this phase of the subject. 
Let us, instead, in contemplating him, bear in mind the sterling attributes 

[59] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


above set out, and trust that the God of Gods will see to it that in the years 
to come he does not possess them in lesser degree, and that whatever his 
fortune or varying misfortune may be, he will be noted principally for his 
love of those things that are lofty, substantial, and that will endure forever. 


INDIAN FRIENDS 

By Brigadier General Hugh L. Scott, Acting Secretary of War 

I take pleasure in saying that I used to have very many friends among 
the old people of the Dakotas; I admired many of them immensely. They 
were real manly men, kind, direct, straightforward and truthful. I knew 
Red Cloud (Makpeya Luta), Spotted Tail (Snite Gliska), Running Antelope 
(Tatogala), Young Man Afraid, Sword, American Horse, Red Dog, Little 
Big Man, Gall-Pazi, John Grass, and very many others. I have spoken 
the sign language of the plains with members of every plains tribe from the 
Saskatchewan River of British America to Mexico, and have never hacf a 
rude thing done to me by an Indian; on the contrary, my association with 
them has been most pleasant and kindly. 


[60] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


INDIAN DEATH-SONG 

By Philip Freneau 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day; 
But glory remains when their lights fade away. 

Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain, 

For the sons of Alknomook will never complain. 

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low! 

Why so slow? do you wait till I shrink from the pain? 
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. 

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. 
Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain; 

But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone; 

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 

Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain; 
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain. 


[61] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE OSAGE 

By Harry Walker 

He lives in a buried century, when 
The prairie met the timber line— 

The wilderness was all his, then; 

Out in the east he saw no sign 
Of emigrant and wagon train 
To mark the end of his domain. 

The sun rose on his day of joy, 

Its setting brought him dreamless sleep. 

His enemy could scarce annoy, 

For he stood fast his own to keep. 

He mourned his dead, yet knew they found 
Beyond a better hunting ground. 

Close to his village ran the deer; 

Wild turkey flew across his tent; 

The striped bass from waters clear 
Leaped to the snare his fingers bent. 

Grapes touched his head, his hurrying feet 
Brushed the red pulp of berries sweet. 

His best loved land was where the trees 

Grew big trunked, wide branched, straight and tall: 
His little fields were flanked by these. 

Each yielded harvest in the fall; 

The brown pecan and yellow maize 
Were bread for long unfettered days. 

He saw the king of rivers flow 
Along his eastern horizon; 

In that dim north of long ago 

The Sioux began where he was done. 

He traced the sun when it was noon 
And found his mountain and lagoon. 

An empire waited his behest— 

His hunting trail ran days and days— 

To where his pastures in the west 

Stretched treeless for great herds to graze. 

He saw them pass—the white man’s creed 
Killed for lust of blood and greed. 

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TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Then came that swift, resistless press 
Of a white people, taking all 
Old habitations; his distress 

Fled from vague promise to the call 
Of farther lands. Yet as he moved 
He left the places he most loved. 


Until in his last camping ground 

The line came swift and doubly girt — 
Within and through and all around — 
Past recompense — past further hurt. 
In blanket by a sepulcher 
He broods upon the days that were. 


Old Indian fields which sun and rain 
Blessed in that shadowy long ago — 
Dead ’till they live in him again — 

The council sits — the campfires glow — 
Red mothers with their children play 
About the tents of yesterday. 


Back to the vanished yesterday 

Through transformation passing strange, 
Large cities stand where old camps lay, 
Swift miracles of time and change. 

Yet underneath this storm and stress 
Of commerce, lies his wilderness. 


Though he has marked the roads he came 
With immortality of speech — 

Great states which bear a sub-tribe’s name, 
Counties and towns and the far reach 
Of mighty rivers carrying flood 
Of words which once for empire stood. 


He takes no stock of these — they tell 
Of some dead chief — a lone trail lost — 
The shackled plain — a tree that fell — 

A red child tamed at doubtful cost — 
The white blood creeping through his folk, 
The cruel kindness of his yoke. 

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TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Yet silently he measures fate — 
Inevitable he counts the ills 
Which leave him mourning, desolate, 
The rude graves of a hundred hills — 
Perhaps to-morrow ’twill efface 
The last pure remnant of his race. 

i 

Still, that to-morrow, too, may bring 
All of his longed-for yesterday — 

The land where wilderness was king 
May lie beyond the shadows gray. 
And where the lost paths seem to fail 
His feet will strike the hunter’s trail. 


THE RED MAN LIVETH STILL 

By Wauban A. Sharp 

Who reads may know, the Red Man liveth still. 
Thrice blest the land where rests his noble clay. 
The mem’ries of his council fires to-day 
Enshrine his name and hallow every hill. 

His tepee, shelt’ring friend or foe from ill,— 
Trusheart, the warrior host, with strong right arm 
His life e’en gave to shield his guest from harm; 
Incarnate in our hearts he liveth still. 

His bark canoe lies buried ’neath the wave, 

The woodlands hide his secret and his grave, 

Great cities, lakes, and states the honors claim 
Of being christened with a Red Man’s name; 

And white men’s hearts with pride do thrill 
Because in them the Red Man liveth still. 


[64] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


IMPRESSIONS 

By Helen W. Ball 

A little more than a quarter of a century ago I had slight knowledge 
of the North American Indian, except what I had read of him in Cooper’s 
“ Leather Stocking Tales,” or gleaned from the highly colored pictures in 
“Indian Wars,” which both horrified and fascinated me when a tiny girl. 
True, I had, when a child gazed with interest upon the Shawnee Indians 
who came to Olathe from the “Black Bob” reservation not far away. 
Once when I was in college a party of Indians came to our church. They 
were in native dress and attracted more attention than the minister. I 
think they were on their way to Washington to see the “Great Father,” 
and with their escort stopped over Sunday in our town. 

One other time I saw some Indian children on their way from the west 
to Carlisle in the early days of that pioneer school. I lived in Western 
Kansas then and I think most of the inhabitants of the small town who 
could possibly leave home went to the hotel near the depot to see the 
Indians eat their suppers. I felt highly favored because I secured such 
a good position from which to view those poor embarrassed children. 

Now I feel thoroughly acquainted with the native American. For a 
quarter of a century I have taught Indians, worked with Indians, have 
visited them in their homes, have had them visit me and have learned to 
love them. I have had little Indian pupils who were so dear that I wanted 
to adopt them and bring them up as my own. 

They are not the sullen, stolid, revengeful people of whom we often 
read. To be sure the grandfathers of some of these students in our schools 
did many cruel things, but the Indians of to-day show little evidence of 
cruel natures. They are especially fond of little children and treat them 
with the greatest kindness. 

At different times I have traveled many miles over reservations with 
Indians as drivers and guides, but I had no fear. They were always 
courteous and obliging. 

Many of the older Indians are not progressive. They do not wish to 
give up their old customs and dress, but we should not blame them for that. 
They find their native dress comfortable and it is difficult to give up life-long 
customs. 

To me the Indians are interesting, and many of them are capable, adapt¬ 
able and deserving of respect. The earnestness and sincerity of some of 
our students in their religious life has endeared them to me and I honor 
them for their devotion and their determination to lead their friends into 
“the better way.” 


[65 ] 


I 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


TO AN INMAN BABE ASLEEP 

By Mrs. J. P. White 

Sleep little babe, in thy lonely bed 
Near the Washita’s sandy stream, 

Where the scant waters lave the bank, 

And catch the sun’s last beam. 

Bound hand and foot by many a fold, 

To thy rigid cradle-board, 

Thou art unwatched by mother now; 

Or her brave, truant lord. 

Sleep Cheyenne babe, in thy beaded bed, 

No mother may come to thee soon; 

She’s out on the hills where the wild wolf lurks, 
And the coyote bays to the moon. 

She follows the ponies wandering track; 

She carries fagots upon her back; 

And to make glad her lord’s return, 

She makes the evening camp-fire burn. 

The darkness deepens o’er the plain, 

The sad winds sigh and weep; 

Fond mother-birds ’neath patient wings 
Fold little ones asleep. 

E’en the lean wolf, with panting breath, 

Creeps her hungry cubs beside; 

All nature croons and broods the while, 

Lest evil should betide. 

Thy cradle, braced by the grey tree-trunk 
Stands neglected and alone; 

No lullaby to soothe thy rest, 

Save the bare branches moan. 

The scudding clouds veil moon and stars; 

The rough winds fan thy face; 

And twilight deep enfolds thy sleep, 

Like the twilight of thy race. 

O lonely babe, so early taught 
To face, may hap, all ills, 

For thee as all, His star arose 
Above Judea’s hills. 

[66] 




Princess Dawn Mist 










TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING-RACE 


THE INDIAN’S SOLILOQUY 

By O. H. Lipps 

To wear hair, or not to wear hair; 
That is the question. 

Whether it is better to be led 
Like a sheep to the Shearer’s 
Or take up a pair of scissors 
Of one’s own accord 
And by the cutting end it? 

Long hair; blankets: 

A profusion of paint and feathers; 
These are truly the outward 
Signs of that inward craving 
For savage immortality. 

Not to be shorn; perchance then 
Not to draw Annuity. 

Ay, there’s the rub; for in 
That drawing of the coin of the realm 
What comfort may come 
Must give us pause; There’s 
The respect that makes savagery 
Of so long life; for who would 
Bear the whips and scorns of work, 
The sun’s hot rays, winter’s 
Chilling blasts; the pangs of 
Despised hunger, charity’s delay, 

The insolence of lookers-on, 

And the spurns that patient 
Lo of the pale face takes, 

When he himself might 
Their quietus make 
With a sharp shears? 


Note: About the year 1902 an edict went out from the Indian Office at Washington 
demanding that all long haired male Indians immediately cut off their hair on pain of 
having their rations and annuities withheld if they neglected or refused to obey the order. 


[67] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE WAR BONNET 

By To-wam-pah 

The feathers of the American eagle are used by every known tribe of 
Indians as a symbol of warfare. Old Indians say that the eagle is the only 
bird that can fly into the face of the sun and face its blazing countenance 
without closing its eyes. Even the birdlings assert their warlike spirit 
while yet in the nest. 

So it is that when an Indian chieftain decks himself in the feathered 
headgear known as the “war bonnet/’ he does so by right of having been 
successful in at least ten battles. 

Each feather recounts a deed of valor. 

This symbol then becomes a part of this brave’s war record, and is 
esteemed by the proud possessor. 

The material required to make the bonnet is gathered in various ways. 
I remember as a child, our stock of calico ponies was increased one with 
every plucking of the tail feathers of the eagle. As my aunt had a large 
cage containing a number of these valuable birds, swapping was rife, and 
the herd of Indian ponies added materially to our financial standing in the 
community. 

The completion of a war bonnet required the skillful fingers of many 
persons. 

First a skull cap was made of dressed deerskin, with a flap hanging 
behind. A border of folded skin, or, in later years, of broadcloth, about the 
edge, formed the foundation for the crown of golden eagle feathers which 
were fastened so as to stand upright about the warrior’s head. Each one 
of these feathers stood for a man; the tip of hair fastened to the feathers 
and painted red represented the man’s scalp-lock. 

Before a feather could be affixed to the bonnet, the brave must count 
the honors which entitled him to wear the feathers he was preparing to 
use in decorating the war bonnet. This ceremonial over, the feather was 
handed to the man who was making the bonnet, who then put the feather 
in its proper place. No honor could be counted twice. 

The task required several helpers, and as they contain from fifty feathers 
up to a hundred, and some exceed even that figure, it took considerable 
time. 

Strips of beaver arranged to fall over the ears and cheeks were fastened 
to the bonnet, the beaver representing alertness and skill in evading pursuit. 

To cover the fastening of the feathers across the front was an elaborate 
band of bead work. At each side was an ornament of bead work from which 
was suspended some narrow, gay-colored ribbons. 

Many flaps were decorated with procupine quill work, or painted with 
symbolic designs. The details differ a little with each tribe. Songs were 
chanted during the making of the bonnet. 

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TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


The brave chieftain who wore with such pride this war insignia upon 
his noble brow has vanished, save from the pages of history where he is 
“ Painted and plumed, with scalp locks flowing, 

And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing,” 
accorded by historians the highest place in the annals of treacherous and 
brutal warfare, until a century of civilization relieves the Indian of even 
this distinction. The civilized warfare of to-day is but history repeating 
itself in a bloodier chapter. 


EXTRACT FROM “CAPTAIN OF THE GREY HORSE TROOP” 

By Hamlin Garland 

The Indians came into the world like the rest of us, without any choice 
in the matter, and so far as I can see have the same rights to the earth — at 
least, as much of it as they need to sustain life. 

The fact that they make a different use of the soil than you would do 
isn’t any sufficient reason for starving and robbing them. 

Even after a man gets their thought he must comprehend the origin of 
their motives. Everything they do has a meaning and sequence. They 
have developed, like ourselves, through countless generations of life under 
relatively stable conditions. These material conditions are now giving way, 
are vanishing, but the mental traits they formed will persist. Think of 
this when you are impatient with them. 

If I could civilize only to the extent of making life easier and happier — 
the religious beliefs, the songs, the native dress — all these things I would 
retain. 

What is life for, if not for this? 


[69] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 

By William Cullen Bryant 

An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept; 

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 

Came down o’er eyes that wept; 

And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 

This sad and simple lay she sung: 

“I’ve pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest boughs that threw 
Their shadows o’er thy bed, 

That shining from the sweet south-west 
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

“It was a weary, weary road 
That led thee to thy pleasant coast, 
Where thou, in his serene abode, 

Hast met thy father’s ghost; 

Where everlasting autumn lies 
On yellow woods and sunny skies. 

“ ’Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 
That shod thee for that distant land; 
’Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
Beside thy still cold hand; 

Thy bow in many a battle bent, 

Thy arrows never vainly sent. 

“With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
And wrapped thee in the bison’s hide, 
And laid the food that pleased thee best, 

In plenty, by thy side, 

And decked thee bravely, as became 
A warrior of illustrious name. 

“Thou’rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 

And in the land of light, at last, 

Hast joined the good and brave; 

Amid the flushed and balmy air, 

The bravest and the loveliest there. 

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TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


“Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,— 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 

And weeps the hours away, 

Yet almost can her grief forget, 

To think that thou dost love her yet. 

“And thou, by one of those still lakes 
That in a shining cluster lie, 

On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
The image of the sky, 

A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-colored shade. 

“And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
My spirit sent to join the blessed, 

And, wondering what detains my feet 
From the bright land of rest, 

Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
The rustling of my footsteps near.” 


[71 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


CHIEF JOSH 

(From “Notable Indian Chiefs and Warriors”) 

By R. H. Adams 

“Josh, chief of the San Carlos Apache, and as an Indian warrior he 
believed in fighting an armed foe to ‘ the last ditch ’ but would not counte¬ 
nance cruelties to noncombatants, nor to his conquered foe. ‘Savage’ has 
become a sobriquet for all Indians, and it is true that in the history of the 
Indian wars in America, we are brought face to face with some horrible 
atrocities. 

“However, the Indian learned the art of scalping his victim from the 
whites, who offered rewards for Indian scalps. He no doubt learned the 
horrible practice of burning at the stake from our benighted New England 
forefathers, who burned Quakers and so called witches at the stake. It is 
also true that they committed many other inhuman acts, some few of them 
no doubt equaling the fiendish punishments of the Spanish Inquisition, or 
the brutal treatment of prisoners, and wounded soldiers in the recent war 
in Europe. 

“Let it also be remembered that Indian atrocities were almost invariably 
the inhuman act of a single individual, while the ungodly and uncalled for 
persecution of the Jews in many ages and countries, the slaughter of Chris¬ 
tians in Turkey, and the horrible Inquisition in Spain, were not only 
national, but like the burning of the witches and Quakers in America, were 
countenanced even by the church itself. 

“It behooves us brethren to cast out first the beam from our own eye, 
that we may see more clearly the mote in our Red Brother’s eye. Is it 
fair? Is it acting the part of a Christian or even that of a superior race, to 
wantonly cover up our own sins by shouting from the house tops the sins of 
others, and more especially of a race of men who were never given a chance 
for advancement, but were on the contrary ruthlessly driven out of the 
world.” 


[ 7 2 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


TO THE DRIVING CLOUD 

By Longfellow 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws; 

Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 

What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? 

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the 
prairies? 

How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the 
mountains? 

Ah! ’tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-Horn, 

Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet! 

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? 

Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the Red Man? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s 
Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous horse-race; 

It is a caravan whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! 

Ha! how like the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east- 
wind, 

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwam! 

[ 73 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


A CHEYENNE’S TRIBUTE 

By J. B. Thoburn, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 
(Broken Spear) 

A Red Man would rise in the council, with words of courage and cheer 
To the Pale Face host which peoples the dreams of a Cheyenne seer. 
Unlearned in lore of bookman, unskilled in the world of art, 

The words which this old warrior utters are the straight-tongued words of 
his heart. 

Cheyealah’s childhood was happy, tho’ ’twas tempered often with want 
When the grey wolf howled at the lodge pole with hunger so savage and 
gaunt; 

Yet, if he endured keen privation, his joys were most truly sublime, 

For he lived in communion with Nature, whose craft was the school of his 
time. 

The creek that flowed out of the canyon, the trout that flashed in the 
stream, 

The boundless, broad-sweeping plain-land, where the herds of bison did 
teem, 

The mountain that towered majestic, the eagle that soared far above — 
These were the books of his school days, they taught him their story of love. 

Once to our village of lodges “The Pathfinder” came in his quest 

Of a pass leading over the mountains — a key to the wealth of the west. 

We watched the Oregon fathers, nor saw we their steps ever lag, 

Led forth by a modest hero who had saved three stars to the flag. 

Where the Pawnee Fork pours its waters in the stream of the sandy Great 
Bend, 

Our hunters saw Doniphan’s troopers who helped your domain to extend — 
’Twas a war that despoiled a nation, yet the world is better to-day 
That your armies marched to the West Sea — that your banner was raised 
there to stay. 

Then a change came over the prairies as the hosts of the White Men grew, 
For, beside the trader and trapper came thousands of gold seekers, too. 
Soon then, the Cheyenne was crowded, for a Pale Face wanted his land — 
He was cheated in game and in barter and was wronged on every hand. 

So the Cheyenne counselled with custom and sought his own wTongs to 
redress 

By waging fierce war on the White Man and seeking revenge for distress. 
Ye know the deeds of my people — ye know the deeds of your own — 

Of tales that were better untold — of facts that were better unknown. 

[ 74 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


But we were caught in the round-up on the Washita’s bloody field, 

And w r ere brought, at the Medicine council, our final submission to yield, 
Confined to a small reservation, exiled from our old hunting ground, 

The “White Man’s road” we then entered — by the White Man’s law we 
were bound. 

Oh the years were weary that followed — with our restlessness thinly 
veiled, 

With wrongs that never were righted, with kindly efforts that failed — 
Yet we bear you now no resentment, nor charge our wrongs to your might 
For, despite crafty agents and traders, the heart of your people was right. 

And so you have conquered the Red Man, and lead him from warfare to 
cease; 

Ye found him an hostile tribesman and taught him the arts of peace, 

Ye have crossed a continent over; ye have builded church and state; 

Ye have made your nation the envy of world powers strong and great. 

Now ye are called to go further — to cross to the isles of the sea — 

That where e’er your banners are waving, the light of true freedom may be 
With new duties growing upon you. “Walk humbly, do justly,” withal, 
“Righteousness exalteth a nation,” “pride goeth before a fall.” 

Then, “do unto others even as you would unto you they should do,” 

For “the measure you mete unto them shall be measured again unto you.” 
The God of your fathers be with you, the Great Spirit strengthen your arm; 
The God of Nations defend you and shield you and keep you from harm. 


Inspired by the presence of Buffalo Meat at a meeting of the Oklahoma 
Baptist State Convention in Oklahoma City. This was soon after his 
conversion and about the time of the Spanish-American war, 1889. As 
the author studied the face of the old man, knowing his past life, and then 
thought of his present change of heart and thought, he said he tried to 
imagine his change of attitude toward the American advance in civilization 
and to put into words the thoughts that might be in the old man’s heart, 
as he would hear of the call to arms and the victories on the field. Not 
knowing Buffalo Meat’s Indian name the author called him “Cheyealah.” 


[75] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


SUNLIGHT LEGEND OF THE WARMSPRINGS INDIANS 

By Lucien M. Lewis 

(Permission Southern Workman , Hampton, Virginia) 

Far away into the Northwest, 

Southward from the great Columbia, 

Where the Deschutes roars and tumbles, 

Where the warm springs boil and bubble, 

In the shadow of the Cascades, 

And their wondrous, glorious snow peaks, 

By the streams and on the prairies 
Dwell a simple Indian people. 


I shall tell you of their legends, 

Of their legends and traditions, 

Of their songs of love and wooing, 

Of their tales of war and bloodshed; 

I shall tell them as I heard them 
From the lisping Indian children, 

From the old men, smoking, dreaming, 
From the women deftly weaving; 

Each one tinting it with colors 
From his weird imagination, 

As the ever changing sunset 
Paints the mountains in the distance. 


Long before man was created, 

Or the sun, or moon, or planets, 

All the world was wrapped in darkness, 
Darkness drear and never ending. 

All the wild birds flapped in terror, 

As they sought for food and shelter; 
Maddened beasts preyed on each other, 
Lighted on their glaring eyeballs. 

In this land of utter darkness, 

There was just one box of sunlight, 
Which the eagle, the Qui-am-er, 

Carried always in his talons. 

Jealously he watched his treasure, 
Never for one single moment, 

Letting bird or beast come near it. 

[ 76 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Sometimes, just to show his power, 
He would pull the lid back gently, 
And for just a few brief moments, 
Fill the land with glorious sunlight. 


Then the birds would cry out wildly, 
“Oh, Qui-am-er, give us sunlight, 
Give us sunshine, we beseech thee; 
Leave your sun-box open always.’’ 
But the eagle flapping proudly, 

Only closed the lid more tightly, 
Sailed away and left them crying 
For the box of precious sunlight. 


Once the eagle as he lighted, 

Pierced his foot upon the thorn tree, 
Pierced his foot with thorn so barbed 
That he could not pull it from him. 
Loud he called out in his anguish, 
“Oh my brothers, come and help me! 
Help me in my dire misfortune, 

Lest I die with pain and fever!” 


Then the crow, the crafty Ah-ah, 
Skilled in primal ways of healing, 
Blinked his piercing eyes serenely, 
Shook his head and answered sagely, 
“ Oh, Qui-am-er, I will heal you, 

I will pull the thorn completely, 

I will stop the pain and fever; 

But I cannot work in darkness, 

I must open wide the sun-box, 

I must see your wounds distinctly.” 


The Qui-am-er, ever wary, 

Ever jealous of his treasure, 

With the fever burning in him, 
Thus made answer to the Ah-ah: 
“You can pull the lid a trifle, 
Just a trifle and no farther, 

If you desecrate my sun-box, 

I will call a curse upon you.” 

[77] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Eagerly the Ah-ah seized it, 

Seized the sun-box in his talons, 

Gave a screan of joy and triump, 
Dashed it on the rocks beneath him, 
Letting free the prized sunlight. 

When the nights are dark and stormy, 
And the night birds scream and flutter 
Close the Indian children huddle, 

In their cozy beds of bearskin; 

Soft they whisper to each other, 
Reassuringly they lisp it, 

“ ’Tis the eagle, the Qui-am-er, 
Searching for his box of sunlight.” 


[78] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


NATURE’S CHILDREN 

By To-wam-pah 

Our fund of strange lore has not been learned from the “ Talking 
Leaves” that unfold a store of fairy tales to the Paleface children, but from 
“The Story Teller” who, wrapped in blankets as if enshrouding himself in 
mystery and solemnity, repeats for future generations these myths. 

Very early the Indian Child assumed the task of preserving the legends 
of his ancestors. Thus, they have reached us through many generations, 
and ere these Real Americans, like the buffalo, have passed into the shadows 
of forgetfulness, I gather these Nature thoughts of my people for a newer 
page in this great record of events. They are utterances of a once mighty 
and noble race, whose greatest crime was in owning this vast domain, Amer¬ 
ica, in which remnants of all nations now unite and sing “ My Country, ’tis 
of Thee,” and, taking Poor Lo by the hand, bid him swear allegiance to the 
flag of the only country he has ever known. 

Children of Nature? Yes! and rightly so; for no greater privilege asked 
we than to roam these rolling, broad plains that reached from our wigwam 
door to the setting sun. At the edge of a running stream, we builded the 
village of wigwams from the slender saplings of trees yet young, whose 
graceful boughs were bound by Nature’s Architects, with strips of bark 
which bore the skins of our noble game; that completed the shelter we called 
home. Here we lived, enjoying the luxury of nature, Happy! Free! Oblivi¬ 
ous that the Wheels of Fate would grind, change and assimilate a human 
race. 

We do not challenge the poet who said “There is a Divinity that shapes 
our lives, Rough hew them as we may.” 

Lift we then the curtain of the past, for a brief recounting of our losses. 

The music of the “Forest God” (our flute) has been silenced by the 
noisy “Tom Tom” of our paleface conquerors. 

Lands of the “Sun Symbols” have we ceded by treaties that bore good 
promise. True, they yielded towering cities,— marvelous commercial 
centers; but their very foundation is the human mold of many of our 
ancestors. 

The melancholy hoot of the owl, our bird of ill omen, whose call was 
imitated by scouts on the war-path, is no longer a signal of danger. Nor 
does the red bird in its flight across our path bear message that the Great 
Spirit will guide us safely on a prospective journey, or our departed warrior 
and Happy Indians, from their far away dwellings come back to us through 
the medium of the “Shooting Stars.” The angry voice of the Great Spirit 
has ceased to be typified as “The God of Thunder,” and the lightening as 
his “Fiery Lance,” which cleared the heavens for the rainbow, “The high¬ 
way of the Great Spirit,” over which all Indians journey to the “Plappy 
Hunting Ground.” 

[ 79 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Though depleted by events that men call history, still our pride remains 
undaunted, and we stand till the last drop of Indian blood has become 
extinct, “The best and noblest of a ransomed land.” 


A CHEYENNE CHIEF 

(From “Notable Indian Chiefs and Warriors”) 

By R. H. Adams 

“White Bull, a Cheyenne chief, is (1914) still living and counts among 
his greatest treasures the friendship and confidence of General Miles, and 
shows with modest pride the photograph and letters from the General, as 
well as letters from nearly all the distinguished army officers of those ten 
decades, of thrilling activities, one and all testifying to White Bull’s attain¬ 
ments, and loyalty, and collectively implying that he is indeed a ‘Noble 
Red Man.’ 

“Many men for lesser services, have been decorated and honored by the 
National Government. However White Bull has never courted such 
recognition, and seems to feel that he is entitled to no further honors for 
having done what he conscientiously believed to be his duty, to himself, 
his people, and to the government under which he lives. 

“ ‘Love maketh not afraid,’ was never more forcibly exemplified than 
in the wonderful transformation of White Bull. It was all brought about 
by the magic of a kind word, and the mysterious influence of a brotherly 
recognition, which costs not even an effort on the part of the giver, but the 
consequences of which shall continue to expand until all of earth, and all of 
heaven is filled with their radiant possibilities.” 


[80] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


A MEMORIAL TO A GREAT RACE 

From Philadelphia Evening Telegraph 

When the white people discovered the North American Indian they 
found themselves in the presence of a Man. 

The Indian was not merely a picturesque type, skilled in warfare — he 
was master of his potentialities. He had brought his environment under 
his control. In his relations with his own and with other tribes he was 
not merely a warrior, he was a negotiator, an orator and a friend. 

His life developed him. He was keen, alert and sagacious. He took 
from nature the materials of his habitations. His womankind were skilled 
in ornament. He was master of many crafts, or many acres — he had 
many characteristics that gave him individuality. 

As the years went on and his contact with the white man grew more 
intimate, he began, though he little suspected it, to surrender the traits of 
nobility. A new thought had come to brood over the land, and his own 
was forced to retreat before it. 

Now, he and his thought are little more than a memory. 

Shall this memory, too, be lost, in the retreat of time? 

The strict nobility of the Indian has appealed in all its fitness to one 
man, who proposes to fix the memory of it for our children in all generations 
to come. 

On December 8, 1911, Congress approved an act to provide a suitable 
memorial to the North American Indian, stating: 

“That there may be erected, without expense to the United States 
Government, by Mr. Rodman Wanamaker, a citizen of the United States, 
on a United States reservation, in the harbor of New York, in the State of 
New York, and upon a site to be selected by the Secretary of War and the 
Secretary of the Navy, a suitable memorial to the memory of the North 
American Indian.’’ 

At noon to-day, February 22, 1913, in New York harbor, in the presence 
of the President of the United States and many distinguished guests, this 
memorial, conceived by Mr. Rodman Wanamaker, will be inaugurated. 

This is no ceremony of passing interest. It is the fulfillment of a tribute, 
long considered and cherished by its founder. It is a reminder, at once to 
us and to all who seek our shores, that this is the land of a vanished people; 
of a race that marched solemnly to its last outpost; no longer owners of the 
soil, but still the makers and the founders of a life that created warriors, 
orators and men. 


[81] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


ON THE MAKING AND BREAKING OF TREATIES 

(In “ My Friend the Indian ”) 

By James McLaughlin 

I am not an apologist for the Indian. I do not hold with those people 
who contend, and generally without much knowledge of the subject, that 
the Red Man has been pillaged, debauched, impoverished, and driven to 
desperation by the acts of the white man. In the nature of things, it must 
have come about that the Indian should go to the wall before the dominating 
influence of the white man. When the first white man placed his foot upon 
the shores of this continent, it was predestined that he should come into the 
inheritance of the Indian. And there is no use quarreling with the processes 
of natural law. But I do know that the sins of the Indians are traceable 
to the avarice, the cruelty, the licentiousness of Wasicun, the white man. 
What he is, the white man made him — for in the Indian of to-day there is 
very little trace of that high spirit and cheerful independence which marked 
the aborigines upon whom the first comers are said to have fallen, as soon 
as was convenient after falling upon their knees and giving thanks for 
coming into the inheritance that had been held for them for many centuries 
by the natives. 

I do not flatter myself that I am uttering an original truth when I say 
that the Indian has been made the object of speculative persecution by 
every white man who felt that he needed what the Indian possessed. The 
history of the country, east and west, was written in the blood of men and 
women who were just as certainly the victims, morally, of the men who 
made the Indians what they were, as they were literally the victims of the 
tomahawk. That is all past and gone; the last menace of an Indian up¬ 
rising disappeared when Sitting Bull died. The Indian of to-day who is 
living at an agency, a moral pauper by reason of his dependency on the dole 
he receives from the government, waiting for enfranchisement by death or 
the development of some instinctive movement for self-preservation, or 
that other one, who is struggling to stand upright and alone among men, is 
handicapped in his efforts and his hopes by reason of the fact that he 
and his ancestors have been treated as liars and cheats, by liars and cheats, 
who wanted that which the Indian possessed. 

A hundred years or so of governmental direction of the Indian, some¬ 
times by cajolery, frequently by warfare, and occasionally by rational and 
fair treatment, has produced a being who is still a child in his understanding 
of our ways, our philosophy, and our knowledge of the necessity for “hus¬ 
tling” for what is desirable. That century of experiment and exploitation 
has ultimately effected this: it has placed about the Indian and his property 
sufficient restrictions to prevent him from being officially robbed, and it has 
secured to him an inheritance that is just sufficient to make him an un¬ 
productive loafer — unless he happens to be an individual of such strength 

[82] 




Courtesy of the Volta Bureau, Washington, 

















































TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


of mind that he is the mental superior of his white neighbors. For some 
years the government has been engaged in converting the untutored savage 
of the sixties and early seventies into an inoffensive but irrational being, 
who cannot get used to the idea that he is a human entity, with his own 
salvation, moral and physical, to work out. And this condition the Indian 
has been brought to because he has been coddled by a lot of fool friends 
whose hands he bit, or chased like a wild beast by fighting men who under¬ 
stood him no better than those who coddled him. 

It was a difficult task that was committed to the men who have been 
trying to work out the Indian problem of late years,— the task of bringing 
the Indian to a state that would permit of his assimilation by the American 
body politic. It has by no means been accomplished yet. As I have said 
elsewhere, I believe it will be accomplished soonest by giving the Indian his 
portion and letting him solve the problem himself. 


[s 3 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR 

By William Cullen Bryant 
(Courtesy of the Crowell Publishing Company) 

Gather him to his grave again 
And solemnly and softly lay, 

Beneath the verdure of the plain, 

The warrior’s scattered bones away. 

Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 

The homage of man’s heart to death; 
Nor dare to trifle with the mould 

Once hallowed by the Almighty’s breath. 

The soul hath quickened every part — 
That remnant of a martial brow, 

Those ribs that held the mighty heart, 
That strong arm—strong no longer now. 
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 

Of God’s own image; let them rest, 

Till not a trace shall speak of where 
The awful likeness was impressed. 

For he was fresher from the hand 
That formed of earth the human face, 
And to the elements did stand 
In nearer kindred than our race. 

In many a flood to madness tossed, 

In many a storm has been his path; 

He hid him not from heat or frost, 

But met them, and defied their wrath. 

Then they were kind — the forests here, 
Rivers, and stiller waters paid 
A tribute to the net and spear 
Of the red ruler of the shade. 

Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 

Roots in the shaded soil below, 

The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
The still earth warned him of the foe. 

A noble race! but they are gone, 

With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 
Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
Upon their fields our harvest waves, 

Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 

Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves! 

[84] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


LOVER’S LEAP 

(Riehl’s Poems of the Piasa—St. Louis Globe-Democrat ) 

Long ago, so runs the record, ere the Paleface saw the land, 

And the Red Man in his glory trod the river’s shining sand, 

Came a maiden here to worship every evening when the sun 
Dipped behind the Western woodland, and the daily chase was done — 
Came to thank the Blessed Spirit for the many mercies sent, 

And to ask for all her — people grace and plenty and content. 


Fair she was, this dusky damsel, daughter of the tribal chief, 

And she bore a charmed existence in the popular belief. 

Many of the brave young warriors had contended for her hand, 

And though all had failed to win her, all were slaves at her command. 
But it chanced one fatal evening, gazing hence across the stream, 

She beheld a youthful boatman in the early twilight gleam. 

And she hailed the comely stranger till he turned in at the shore. 

He was of another people, whom she ne’er had known before. 

Each found pleasure in the other, and the chance acquaintance grew 
Till they vowed to bide together, and exchanged love’s pledges true. 
But, alas! one eve they lingered, gazing on the peaceful tide, 

As the youth told of his devotion, kneeling fondly by her side. 


When their tryst was rudely broken, through a jealous rival’s eyes, 

Who beheld an interloper winning thus his cherished prize. 

And at once did spread the story that a hated enemy 
Was enticing their fair princess from her native tribe to flee. 

Then the chieftain, flushed with anger, seized his trusty bow and dart, 
And forbade his warriors weapons — he would pierce the villain’s heart. 
Stealthily he stole upon them, all unconscious of their doom, 

Till his shout of warning echoed like a death knell through the gloom. 
Instantly the maiden, pleading, sprang to shield her lover’s form. 

Woe! the deadly arrow speeding, sought her life-blood, fresh and warm. 
Then the grim old warrior staggered — he, master in his art, 

Who had never missed a target, shot his daughter through the heart. 


And the youth, when comprehending, caught the fair form in his arms, 
While the angry horde advancing, pressed him close with wild alarms, 
When he sprang upon yon boulder, stood a moment calmly there, 

Cast at them a cold defiance — then leaped out upon the air. 
Afterwards they found them, mangled, lying on the rocks below, 

And the hills re-echoed sadly the remorseful cries of woe. 

[85] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Tenderly the twain were buried, on the summit side by side, 
While the Indian priest, foreknowing, at the service prophesied 
That the place should e’er be sacred to the spirit it had served, 
As the home of many people who these favors well deserved — 
That the Manitou’s best blessing, ever coming from above, 

Here would hold his chosen children in the happy bonds of love. 


MY COUNTRY 

By Chief Joseph 

My father sent for me. I saw he was dying. I took his hand in mine. 
He said: “My son, my body is returning to my mother earth, and my spirit 
is going very soon to see the Great Spirit Chief. When I am gone, think of 
your country. You are the chief of these people. They look to you to 
guide them. Always remember that your father never sold his country. 
You must stop your ears whenever you are asked to sign a treaty selling 
your home. A few years more and white men will be all around you. 
They have their eyes on this land. My son, never forget my dying words. 
This country holds your father’s body. Never sell the bones of your father 
and mother.” 

My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. I buried him in 
that beautiful valley of “Winding Waters.” I love that land more than 
all the rest of the world. A man who would not love his father’s grave is 
worse than a wild animal. 


/ 


# 


[86] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK 

By Longfellow 

On sunny slopes and beechen swell, 

The shadowed light of evening fell; 

And, where the maple’s leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 

At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian’s soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 

To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior’s head; 

But, as the summer fruit decays, 

So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid; 

The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 

And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 

With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

[s?] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Stripped of his prouf and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 

With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 

He came; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief, they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed; 

And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh 
Arose,— and, on the dead man’s plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 


[88] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


SONG OF THE CARLISLE INDIANS 

By Elaine Goodale Eastman 
(In The Independent) 

Upon this mid-October day, 

All crisp and glowing, 

We red men hurry to the fray, 

Our banners blowing; 

Keen to outstrip a friendly foe 
In manly paces, 

Upon a bloodless field to show 
Victorious faces — 

Renewing in our altered life 
Past pride of story, 

The ancient blood in modern strife 
Athirst for glory! 

The prize of honor doth beguile 
Each warrior’s heart. Carlisle! Carlisle! 


The tree in red and yellow drest — 
Our colors wearing — 

Applaud with million hands our best 
Of skill and daring; 

The open skies repeat our mirth, 

The hills that bore us; 

All inarticulate tongues of earth 
Swell the wild chorus. 

If man with nature owns his kin, 

Our claim is nearer; 

Dearer to her our tawny skin — 

Our triumphs dearer! 

We boast the guerdon of her smile 
Upon our flag. Carlise! Carlisle! 


You have not read our measure yet, 
You Paleface brothers: 

You thought our sun forever set — 
Our place, another’s! 

True, our old men in silence mourn 
The days departed, 

By force of numbers overborne 
And broken-hearted. 

[89] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


We ask no more than all may claim, 
Tho’ raw beginners — 

A fair field and an honest game — 
Cheers for the winners! 

Boldly our challenge rings the while; 
On to the goal! Carlisle! Carlisle! 


TREATIES 

From Des Moines (Iowa) Register and Leader 

The French, when they sold Louisiana Territory, left the American 
purchasers a legacy which has caused no end of embarrassment—the 
Indian as independent nations to be dealt with by formal treaty. The 
American soon accustomed himself to the forms, but took what he wanted. 
The Indian, who had great respect for forms, never could understand 
American duplicity. To him the American always spoke with forked 
tongue. 

The treaties with the Indians have been gathered and published in a 
single volume. It may be said with confidence that leaving out the merely 
formal ratifications of existing friendly relations there is not one treaty that 
was negotiated in good faith by the United States. What Germany has 
done in Belgium would be merely incidental if compared with what this 
country has done in violation of formal treaty rights on every foot of Indian 
ground. 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


CITIZENSHIP FOR THE RED MAN 

By Edna Dean Proctor 

A Mighty nation we have built 
Of many a race, remote or kin,— 

Briton and Teuton, Slav and Celt, 

All Europe’s tribes are wrought therein; 
And Asia’s children, Afric’s hordes, 

Millions the world would crush or flout; 

To each some help our rule affords, 

And shall we bar the Red Man out? 

The Red Man was the primal lord 
Of our magnificent domain, 

And craft, and crime, and wasting sword 
Oft gained us mount and stream and plain. 
And shall we still add wrong to wrong? 

Is this the largess of the strong — 

His need to slight, his faith to doubt, 

And thus to bar the Red Man out, 

Though welcoming all other men? 

Nay! let us nobly build him in, 

Nor rest till “ward” and “alien” win 
The rightful name of citizen! 

Then will the “reservation” be 
Columbia’s breadth from sea to sea, 

And Sioux, Apache, and Cheyenne 
Merge proudly in American! 





TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


AN INTERVIEW 

Mr. Dallin discussed at his studio in Arlington Heights, Boston, the 
other day, with the Christian Science Monitor, his conception of the great 
group of statues which he has produced. 

“In the ‘Signal of Peace,’ ” he said, “I meant to convey that, with the 
coming of the first white men, the aborigine was unsuspicious of any wrong 
motives against his inalienable right as the possessor of the land. He was 
friendly, ready to extend the hand of fellowship the moment it was offered. 
His countenance in the statue is open, expectant, as one would who meets 
with strangers whom he wishes to greet fraternally. 

“In ‘The Protest’ we have the forewarned warrior fully cognizant of 
his plight. His peaceful advances toward the whites have been of no 
profit. He must accept the prophecy of the seer of his tribe. He now 
arrays himself against his opponents, and with clenched fist, his steed rear¬ 
ing on its haunches, he hurls defiance at his foe. This, then, is the war 
stage. Here we come to the conflict with the frontiersman. I have some 
knowledge of this, and my mother, who is still at our old home in Spring- 
ville, Utah, has told me many stories of the troublesome days when the 
Indian took the warpath. My father had much experience with them, and 
while it is not to be doubted that the Red Man’s ethics in those early days 
did not correspond with what we consider proper, yet we most generally 
found that where he was treated kindly and considerately he was a good 
friend. As for his honesty, his word was law. I am firmly of the opinion 
that no primitive race has ever shown nobler traits. Have we not the 
expression ‘noble Red Man’ in evidence of his inherent qualities? This 
term would not have found currency if it had not deserved it in its day and 
generation.” 


[92] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


CHIEF STRONG ARM’S CHANGE OF HEART 

By Frances C. Wenrich 

An Indian play with the title given above was written for the students of 
Haskell Institute to be presented during the celebration of the Quarter 
Centenary of that School. In this play Chief Strong Arm is the main 
character. He represents an old Indian of the higher type who ponders 
over the Indian’s changed conditions and gropes about seeking for some 
answer as to what their future will be. 

A GLIMPSE INTO STRONG ARM’S HEART 

I. 

Gone are the days of our fathers, brave warriors; 

Never again will they roam o’er these plains! 

Never again will they chase the great bison! 

Never, fleetfooted, an enemy trail! 

Ne’er will their war cry resound thro’ the forest, 

Startling their foe as they stealthily creep 
Trusting their skill to outmatch his in cunning, 

Proud to o’ercome him and gloat o’er his death! 


2. 

Gone are our villages! Gone are our lodges! 

Where can a bowman of skill now be found? 

Gone is our freedom! Where is our glory? 

Robbed of our birthright, we tamely sit down. 

Customs long dear to the hearts of our fathers, 

Tainted are now with the conqueror’s arts. 

Manito mighty, look down on thy children! 

Pity thy red sons, and comfort their hearts! 

Being deeply stirred by these musings Strong Arm calls a council^of his 
own and a neighboring tribe and there reveals to them his troubled thoughts. 

STRONG ARM IN TROUBLE 

I. 

Friends, you all know how the old days are passing; 

Know how our prairies and forest are gone. 

Almost in prison our lives we are spending; 

What does the Future for us hold in store? 

What shall we do that our children may prosper? 

Must we all yield to our conqueror’s will? 

Shall we cease hating and meekly surrender, 

Seeing the forest child’s doom in the end? 

[93] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


2 

Must we assume the yoke of the toiler? 

Yield without murmur the joys of our past? 

Must we take on the new ways of living? 

Join in the struggle for raiment and food? 

Must we now wrestle with Earth and with Moisture? 
Wearily sow that we may enjoy bread? 

Troubled is Strong Arm, your chief and your brother, 
Burdened with sorrow, he shows you his heart. 


Strong Arm is answered by Chief Eagle Feather of the friendly tribe. 
Eagle Feather is a younger and more progressive Indian who sees that the 
Red Man must solve his problem by entering into new ways of living. 


CHIEF EAGLE FEATHER AND THE INDIAN PROBLEM 

Friend and brother, dark your vision, 

Yes, our times are sadly changed, 

A new life is thrust upon us, 

We must meet these changes then. 


We must brave be, and courageous, 
We must battle with our fate; 

We must turn our faces forward, 

Red Man fight as other men. 

We must watch the clouds and waters, 
We must toil that we may win; 

We must learn new ways of conquest, 
Leave our past, the new to gain. 


I’ve a son, he now is with us; 

He’s been learning at a school; 
Every inch he’s as the white man, 
Save in color, still our own. 

He will tell you what he’s learning, 
He will tell you how to win; 

We are passing as the Indian, 

But we’re ever to be men. 

[ 94 ] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


Young Eagle Feather is permitted to speak, and makes a strong plea 
for the education of his brother and sister tribesmen. Strong Arm, after 
serious consideration, yields to the new order of things in so far as to send 
his only daughter Moonbeam, and some of her young friends away to school, 
but determines to keep a watch over them. 

STRONG ARM—THE FATHER 

Is this the best we can do for our children? 

Sending them far from our hearts and our home? 

White men will teach them to scorn and forget us, 

Bitter the cup that the red parent drains, 

I will still watch the steps of our children, 

Watch the white hawks that may seize them as prey. 

Shortly I’ll follow to see what they’re doing. 

Strong Arm with keen eyes will follow them soon. 

After a time he visits his young people away at school. He sees them 
at their studies and work; at their games and sports; and in their social life. 
He is bewildered by all that he sees but is also profoundly impressed. Two 
of his young people found a home and live after the white man’s fashion. 
He visits them often and seeing their success and happiness, nobly and 
pathetically makes the following confession: 

HIEF STRONG ARM’S CHANGE OF HEART 

The past seems lost, 

Far, far away as in the night; 

Alone I seem to stand,— 

I find no pathway leading to the light. 

But when I turn 

And look into your faces bright, 

And there behold your joy, your hope, 

My heart is soft and light; 

And Strong Arm yields. Yes, yes; 

It must be right. 

Now golden sunbeams pierce the gloom, 

A way — appears in light; 

A radiance steals into my heart, 

Clearing the darkness from my sight; 

I only turn me back to say, 

Farewell, 0 night! 

[ 95 1 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


WELCOME TO THE RED MAN 

By Edna Dean Proctor 

“Welcome!” cried Indian Samoset 
In sixteen twenty one 

As he walked up startled Plymouth street 
In the glow of the morning sun. 

His robe was a leathern girdle; 

His bow was in his hand; 

But his mien was noble and kindly, 

Befitting a Son of the Land; 

And the anxious hearts of the Pilgrims 
Were cheered by his gracious word, 

And they brought him in to their “common house” 
And fervently thanked the Lord. 

Now we are one great Nation 
Now strife and fear are past; 

“Welcome,” we cry, “to the richer life 
Of our crowded years, at last! 

Welcome to mead and upland 
Your fathers left untilled; 

To flocks and herds, and granaries 
With the fruits of your labor filled; 

To shop and forge; to game and song; 

To school and college chair; 

Yea, and the Nation’s Councils — 

We bid you welcome there! 

For we are one, and strife is done, 

And all we fain would share.” 


[96] 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


PELATHE’S RIDE 

By Wauban A. Sharp 
(Right to republish reserved) 

At midnight Pelathe caught rumors that fly 
By magic, when dangers are hovering nigh. 

For “ Kansas a desolate waste must be laid/’ 

The decision in council by Quantrell was made. 

“To arms,” came the order delayed long by fate, 

But the scourge of the prairies had passed through the gate. 
Appalled then with terror, men whispered “Too late.” 

Pelathe the warrior, the bushwhackers’ foe 
Rose up and demanded permission to go. 

No counsel of friends in this darkest hour, 

He acted at once—uncertain his power. 

The call of distress moved the heart of the brave, 

And reckless of danger this service he gave, 

And rode through the blackness a city to save. 

The Shawnee had mounted Kentucky, his pride, 

And quietly started his life and death ride, 

Through sleeping Quindaro, heedless of harm, 

Then galloped away past woodland and farm. 

With lover’s caress he told of the need, 

His charger responded with redoubled speed, 

Success of the message — the strength of his steed. 

The Eagle now halted his furious pace, 

Fearing his charger would lose in the race. 

A sip of cold water at dawning of day, 

Then off like the wind, he flew on his way, 

“ Great Spirit, help now,” in his prayer the brave cried, 
Then flayed his tired steed, and gunpowder applied, 

To gain a few more precious miles ere she died. 

Undaunted, the warrior then took to the trail, 

And swiftly he raced through forest and vale, 

The Delaware village then reaching at dawn, 

With quavering whoop, was mounted and gone. 

Old Mount Oread, he saw through the haze, 

Then Lawrence appeared, like an ocean ablaze. 

He lost like a hero the world loves to praise. 

[97] 



TRIBUTES TO A - VANISHING RACE 


The voice of the world yet his triumph shall sing, 
And ages yet coming, a crown, too, will bring. 

For victory is won by paying the cost, 

The warrior may win, though the battle be lost. 
Pelathe still lives, as the pride of his race, 

His human devotion and measure of grace, 
Among the immortals have won him a place. 


“I WISH TO DIE FREE” 

(An Osage Indian chief’s reply to advice that he adopt the white man’s mode of life) 

An attempt was made early in the history of Missouri to induce the 
Osage Indians, then the most highly civilized tribe, according to the white 
man’s standard, to give up their wandering habits and become permanent 
settlers in some locality. The agricultural methods of the whites were 
explained once to Has-ha-ke-da-tungar, an Osage Chief, and he was urged to 
advise his people to adopt them. Replying, he said, according to Houck, 
the Indian recognized the superiority of the white man’s method, but he 
doubted if his generation could adopt them. His talk showed an excep¬ 
tional understanding of the character of his tribe. He said, in part: 

“I see and admire your way of living, your good warm houses, your 
extensive cornfields, your gardens, your cows, oxen, workhorses, wagons 
and a thousand machines that you know the use of; I see you are able to 
clothe yourselves even from weeds and grass. In short you can do 
almost what you choose. 

“You whites possess the power of subduing almost every animal 
you use. You are surrounded by slaves. Everything about you is in 
chains and you are slaves yourselves. 

“I fear if I should change my pursuit for yours, I, too, should become 
a slave. Talk to my sons. Perhaps they may be persuaded to adopt 
your fashions, or at least recommend them to their sons; but for myself, 
I was born free, was reared free, and wish to die free! 

“I am perfectly content with my condition. The forest and river 
supply all the calls of nature in plenty, and there is no lack of white 
people to purchase the supplies of our industry.” 


[98] 




TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


DAYS THAT ARE GONE FOREVER 

By Judge Geo. W. Atkinson, M.A., Ph.D. 

Among the pines the River Elk is roaring 

And o’er the rocks the waves revel beneath the sun; 

Far up the hills the turkeys and the deer are roaming, 

Where hunters chase their game, till day is done. 

The rain o’er rocks and vales is falling gently, 

With veil of mist the mountain sides are hid from view; 

While the prisms of the rain-bow span the emerald valley, 
And dark the sky with beauties ever new. 

Flows on the Elk, its crystal spray ’mid gorges falling, 

As sentinels each crag the murmuring stream doth spurn; 

Hark! hear the birds above the valley calling — 

Those primeval scenes, alas! shall ne’er return. 

The Indian’s home was these primeval forests, 

’Mid which he roamed unharmed by hungry whites; 

Yet soon across the wilds they came like pirates 

For conquest, spoils, and the Red Man’s sacred rights. 

With tomahawk and bow their braves heroic 
Against the “Pale Face” waged unequal war; 

To cruel fate they yielded like the Stoic, 

With tribal remnants scattered wide and far. 

When braves, and maidens tall and lithe and swarthy, 

Thus saw resistless Empire sweeping toward the west, 

Their wigwams struck, and sullen, sad and stealthy 
Began their fruitless search for peace and rest. 

Commending all to the Great Spirit’s keeping, 

Long years they followed their Chief’s behest 

Thro’ trackless plains and forests, ever seeking 
Their long lost “Alabama, here we rest.” 

Now there’s little left of those gloomy days of sorrow, 

Save the ghosts that haunt those ancient, weary ways 

Of Chief and squaw, who hoped for better things to-morrow, 
On hunting grounds to sing their native forest lays. 

[99] 

> '5 

> > > 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


And never again beside these dashing fountains 

Shall the Red Man’s bed of skins and furs be spread; 

Nor shall he roam among these lofty mountains 
And wakeful list the White man’s stealthy tread. 

Alas! poor dusky maidens, waiting ever 

Your warrior friends, the braves, among the dead! 

They sleep on hill and valley wide; and never 
Again on earth your piteous call shall heed. 

So to their fate as “braves” they yielded calmly; 

Their tents they pitched on happier hunting grounds, 

And ’mid far western hills as a united family, 

Their w r arriors sleep beneath peculiar Indian mounds. 

They sleep the sleep that knows no earthly waking, 

Their rights they knew were trampled beneath the sod; 

To superior force they yielded at the White man’s making 
And they leave it all to him and to his God. 


[IOO ] • 

‘ r c 
6 v 


< » 



TRIBUTES TO A VANISHING RACE 


PERPETUATING A DYING RACE 

Selected 

Driven steadily westward by the mounting flood of a superior civiliza¬ 
tion, feared and fought, exploited and cheated, demoralized and scorned, 
the one-time lords of the land to-day exist only as a grim remnant of a 
dying race. 

The mighty monument which is to stand near the Narrows will tell all 
this to future generations. And even more, it will speak of that inexorable 
onward March of time before which nations, rulers and people alike in the 
end go down to defeat. 

This is why, when the President turned the spadeful of soil and the 
guns belched out and the weird melancholy strains of Indian music filled 
the air while the Stars and Stripes fluttered to a masthead, pulled up by a 
redskin’s fingers, the whole august assemblage, stoic Indian chiefs, who had 
come from the far West to assist in the rite, as well as the ripest products of 
modern civilization, stood with bared heads and beating hearts for one long 
solemn, thoughtful minute. 

The splendid memorial, which has been called by the press of the entire 
country, the greatest single idea in many years, is the inspiration of a 
Philadelphian, Mr. Rodman Wanamaker. 

For a considerable time he has been keenly interested in the Indians on 
the Western reservations. Twice he sent out costly expeditions for six 
months at a stretch to make complete and permanent records of the wild 
life which was passing. Hundreds of photographs and thousands of feet 
of moving picture films were employed to show not only the features of 
famous old braves, some of whom had joined in the Custer massacre, but 
the incidents of their daily life, their surroundings, sports, dances and 
tribal customs. 

More and more he became impressed with the tremendous historic and 
human interest of what was fast disappearing, and more and more, say his 
friends, as he studied the Sioux and Apsarakas, the Apaches, Kiowas, 
Cheyennes and the rest and the fatal pages of their relations with the Pale¬ 
faces, with Indian agents and unscrupulous traders, with sentimentalists 
and a mistaken Government, did he become possessed with the feeling that 
some day, when the last Red Man had taken the trail to the Happy Hunt¬ 
ing Grounds, and the prairies and the mountains that had been his, would 
know him no more the country would be glad — for a variety of reasons — 
to have a lasting monument to the Vanished Race. 


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